


Desperado

by Verbrennung



Series: Loyalty [1]
Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Alternate Universe - Thieves, Classic Cars, Gen, Heist fic, Japan/Las Vegas Fusion Setting, M/M, Multi, Reunion Fic, but it's an iwaoi fic do not be mistaken friend, daisho suguru is a bad person but maybe not a bad friend?, i.e. a LOT of this is from Kyoutani's POV, outside perspective, we'll see about that one
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-19
Updated: 2018-10-10
Packaged: 2019-06-29 19:22:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 82,851
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15735801
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Verbrennung/pseuds/Verbrennung
Summary: Clearly Iwaizumi had a checkered past. Kyoutani has never asked about it, nor has Iwaizumi ever brought it up. He knows it’s a sore spot for his mentor, just like the gorgeous Monte Carlo he keeps hidden away is, so he leaves it alone. Out on the streets, you learn a little something about when to turn a blind eye in order to survive; Kyoutani knows better than most to leave the past of men like Iwaizumi well alone.It’s probably got something to do with the boy in the polaroids, though.Retired pickpocket & conman Iwaizumi Hajime receives an invitation he can't possibly decline, pulling him back into his old life to work a job with his old friends and ex-lover Oikawa Tooru. His mostly-legit apprentice Kyoutani gets dragged along for the ride. It's a complete mess.





	1. there ain't nothing here for me anymore

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *jumps out of garbage can* betcha thought you'd seen the last of me, huuuuh?
> 
> uhhhhhh this has been in the works for a LONG TIME (we're talking _years_ ). it's something a little different for me. VERY long. it's mostly outside!perspective (kyoutani) but ofc it's **iwaoi** bc it's me. there's plot and a LOT about kyoutani and iwaizumi's (platonic!! brotherly!!) relationship, so you've been warned! this chapter is mostly world- and plot-building but things will heat up from here i promise!!
> 
> dedicated to the iwasexuals as always. also for everyone who's ever left kudos, bookmarked, or commented on any of my other fics. you make the struggle of fic-writing infinitely worth it. thank you all ♡  
> there is now a [spotify playlist!](https://open.spotify.com/user/gm0cs467p1ntg1obc5owz8nfd/playlist/4z6NEM4nqOCJfb1X1rtZtc)
> 
> **IWAOI IS NOT DEAD**

Iwaizumi-san seems like a pretty normal guy.

 

He’s the mechanic in town; at the shop six days a week. He never rips people off; never takes advantage of their ignorance to carry out unnecessary maintenance that adds heft to a customer’s bill. He’s friendly to patrons, engaging in conversation when prompted but otherwise prefers to keep to himself.

 

He doesn’t seem like the type to be particularly bothered about material possessions – his auto shop is clean and holds good equipment, but it’s small. His house is just as modest, a pretty but average two-storey home in a suburban neighbourhood. It only has a small yard in the back, but the double-garage attached to the side of the house makes up for it, a car port attached to the door covering the driveway. It’s the garage that holds Iwaizumi’s only luxury item:

 

 

A 1977 Chevrolet Monte Carlo, with the original teal paint job and white detailing almost obsessively maintained, its coat waxed and polished to perfection. It’s an absolute boat of a car, far too large for practical use and surely an obscene gas guzzler. Just the most ridiculous thing really, and more than a little bit too ostentatious for its owner.

 

It’s an endless source of fascination to Kyoutani. He’s never seen anything like it in his life - it’s the kind of thing you’d see in old movies, cruising along desert roads kicking up dust without another soul in sight for miles and miles, not in a quiet suburb like this and certainly nowhere near the shithole Kyoutani grew up in.

 

He’s never seen it run the whole time he’s been Iwaizumi’s apprentice at the shop, but he can just tell it goes like a dream; can almost imagine the loud, smooth rumble of the engine. In fact, it’s usually hidden away under a protective dust sheet in Iwaizumi-san’s garage, so he’s only ever been able to appraise it a handful of times. Kyoutani hangs around at Iwaizumi’s place quite often, but it’s rare the other man will uncover it and let him look - mostly, he likes to help Kyoutani work on his jeep or his motorcycle under the covered driveway where he usually keeps his truck.

 

Iwaizumi-san isn’t as normal as he seems, though. He offered Kyoutani an apprenticeship despite his criminal record (Kyoutani thinks maybe even _because_ of it – or at least because he knew that no one else ever would), actually _trusted_ him to sleep in the room above the shop until he could afford his shitty downtown apartment and offered to pay for Kyoutani’s mechanic’s course as an ‘investment’.

 

Kyoutani hadn’t even thought of pursuing his former career as a petty thief by taking Iwaizumi-san’s shit and running - something told him he was not a guy to cross.

 

But besides that, opportunities like the one Iwaizumi had given him don’t often come knocking at the door of someone like Kyoutani, so he’d taken it and did his best not to fuck it up. That way, he had the security of somewhere he could sleep, an actual _trade_ he could learn and live off, and someone that maybe, just maybe, he could depend on.

 

It took Iwaizumi three months to add other things besides a regular mechanic’s education to the curriculum of Kyoutani’s apprenticeship. First, it was how to play poker. After two weeks of absolutely decimating him at the game, Iwaizumi-san taught him how to bluff; how to control his facial expression and emotions; what body language to look out for and how to project false signals. Two months later he taught him how to play blackjack, and another month after that how to count the cards. When he got that down well enough, Iwaizumi had rewarded him by correcting his technique in picking locks and breaking into cars, so he could do it quickly and quietly and ‘not get arrested next time, Kyoutani-- not that there will be a next time’. That wasn’t normal, but Kyoutani knew better than to open his mouth.

 

Nine months in, Iwaizumi-san taught him misdirection, how to guide the eyes away from where they want to and _should_ be looking, and how to ‘lift’ something (pickpocket or take jewelry someone is actually _wearing_ ) without anyone ever noticing.

 

That particular area of training is still technically ongoing, but Iwaizumi had gone over the rules right when they’d started and the both of them recounted them regularly ever since:

  1. Never steal from the shop’s customers
  2. Never steal from friends
  3. Never lift more than one thing from a person
  4. Never steal from the same person twice
  5. Never lift if there’s less than four people in the room
  6. Abandon the lift if you make a mistake, or if it’s going anything other than textbook
  7. Do not get caught



 

Kyoutani had nodded from his position on an overturned crate in the workshop the first time Iwaizumi recounted these rules, wiping his dirty fingers with an equally dirty rag as he spoke. Even though he already knew the answer, in the way lesser predators are always wary of bigger, stronger ones, he couldn’t help but ask:

 

“What about stealing from you?”

 

Iwaizumi glanced up, grinned with _teeth_ and responded with a simple “you could _try._ ”

 

Kyoutani’s shoulders had stiffened of their own volition, even though he knew Iwaizumi wasn’t actually threatening him in any way. He wouldn’t dare cross Iwaizumi, anyways - he was his _mentor_ , and had already given him more than Kyoutani could ever repay. Still, not for the first time, Kyoutani felt glad to be on his good side. He couldn’t say what it was, exactly, but there was something that made him wary of Iwaizumi Hajime. There was more to the man than met the eye.

 

The gorgeous vintage car he ostensibly never drove. The incredible card-playing skills. The expertise on how to fucking _rob people_.

 

Clearly Iwaizumi had a checkered past. Clearly he was here to get away from that - he wouldn’t own an honest, reputable business that was a pillar of a community if people knew his skill set went beyond that of a regular mechanic.

 

Kyoutani has never asked about it, nor has Iwaizumi ever brought it up. Kyoutani might be a bit difficult socially, but he has good instincts about that kind of thing. Out on the streets, you learn a little something about when to turn a blind eye in order to survive. He knows it’s a sore spot for his mentor, just like the gorgeous Monte Carlo he keeps hidden away is - Kyoutani knows better than most to leave the past of men like Iwaizumi well alone.

 

It’s probably something to do with the boy in the polaroids, though.

 

(After all, it’s not like having preservation instincts stops him from being _curious_. Kyoutani lives by the premise of ‘know your enemy’ and while Iwaizumi isn’t his enemy now - well, that doesn’t mean things won’t go bad later. It’s hard to trust someone completely when people have been so untrustworthy up until now.)

 

So maybe one day Kyoutani found himself nonchalantly going through the drawers in Iwaizumi’s living room cabinet, and among old letters and random sheets of paper Kyoutani hadn’t the time nor inclination to read, he found a handful of polaroids. Not even enough to be called a stack really, only about five or six photos. They were old, in fairly good condition but with small pinholes in the white border to suggest they’d been stuck to a wall or board at some point.

 

Iwaizumi was only in one photograph, obviously a good few years younger, stood in the foreground with a cigarette between his lips and a pair of keys held aloft in his hand. There’s a long pair of arms wrapped around his shoulders, belonging to another boy around the same age, eyes clenched shut and teeth bared in an ecstatic grin. Behind the two of them is the Monte Carlo, though it’s barely recognisable as the beauty it is now, parked between other nondescript cars in a car lot and looking pretty worse for wear.

 

Kyoutani had stared for a moment, for some reason gripped with the picture and the piece of history it held, only giving a second to wonder who could have taken the photo before he slipped it to the back of the small pile in his hand.

 

The mysterious boy was in every other photograph – in one of them he’s grinning up at the camera in mischief, wearing a thick fur coat and seemingly nothing else, the square shot cutting off once it reached the mid-point of his bare chest; another he’s curled up awkwardly in the back of the Monte Carlo, the leather upholstery old and torn, his brown hair sticking up everywhere as he sleeps, bathed in the sunlight coming through the rear window. Intimate. The others are more candid and less private - the only other one that made an impression was the boy and two others he couldn’t see from the angle, sat on the floor of some kind of shabby apartment, counting a pile of money. Incriminating.

 

Kyoutani was only half-surprised - not by the suspicious money or the unintentional photographic documentation of the car’s history, but more the focus on the boy. The intimacy of it… He wasn’t just a friend, that much was obvious. Kyoutani hadn’t pegged Iwaizumi as the type to be into other guys, not that it really mattered to him at all. Finished with his snooping, he’d gathered the photos back into a haphazard stack and pushed them back where he’d found them, closing the drawer and laying what he’d just seen to rest.

 

Like Iwaizumi had said when he’d offered Kyoutani a job and a place to stay: the past is the past. They both had things they didn’t want to talk about. Kyoutani thinks it’s fine to leave that stuff alone - they have each other, now. They can move on from all the shit they’ve been through and continue this simple little life in suburbia.

 

Or so he thinks.

 

♠ ♡ ♣ ♢ ♠ ♡ ♣ ♢ ♠ ♡ ♣ ♢ ♠ ♡ ♣ ♢

 

Kyoutani wakes with the rising sun every morning. He has a thing with being punctual that he’s never been able to shake, which really means he’s early to anything that’s important - like work - unless he’s being a little shit on purpose. Iwaizumi had given him the responsibility of opening the shop a long time ago, so it’s normal routine to kill the engine of his bike and kick its stand in the yard, unlock the office door and then walk through to the empty, still workshop. His day doesn’t feel started until he inserts the key which draws the shutter door up with a groan and a long, drawn-out rumble. Next in his routine is spending ten minutes trying to get the shitty coffee machine Iwaizumi refuses to replace running and fucking around on the office computer until the rest of the world wakes up. He’s got an incredible high score on solitaire that will forever remain a secret.

 

He grabs the mail when it gets delivered, lingering behind the door until the old guy has meandered off to avoid human contact before grabbing the stuff from the basket attached below the letterbox. He shuffles through the envelopes, feeling underwhelmed at the usual bills and one of their waiting room magazine subscriptions until he sees a crisp, emerald green envelope amongst the regular white. He picks it out of the pile, dumping everything else on Iwaizumi’s shitheap of a desk, and examines it.

 

It’s pretty thin, but sturdier than a paper letter - maybe a single piece of card inside - and the envelope itself feels smooth, like good quality stationery. All that’s written on the front is the two characters that make up Iwaizumi’s family name and nothing else. No address, no stamp, so surely couldn’t have been brought with the mailman. Kyoutani knows it isn’t a birthday card, since Iwaizumi’s birthday was in June. Maybe it’s an invite to a party or something. Iwaizumi doesn’t really bother with many friends but he’s a lot more sociable than Kyoutani, and people seem fond of him.

 

The coffee machine stops hissing and Kyoutani shrugs to himself, throwing the envelope onto the rest of Iwaizumi’s mail and before going to grab his morning fuel.

 

Iwaizumi walks in just after 8:30, grumbling to himself about something or other before taking off his jacket and hoodie, hanging them on the lopsided coat stand in the corner. Kyoutani’s on the old sofa, flicking through some random housewife magazine Iwaizumi buys for some reason, staying in the office until they get a customer.

 

It takes Iwaizumi a few minutes to swing by his desk, but only a few seconds to stop dead at the sight of the envelope. Kyoutani looks up at his sudden stillness, and Iwaizumi’s eyes swing over to him without the rest of him moving at all.

 

“Where did this come from?” he asks calmly, but all of Kyoutani is suddenly on high alert, old survival instincts kicking in. He puts the magazine down and sits up as Iwaizumi continues. “Did you see who brought it?”

 

Kyoutani knows what he’s talking about, but he doesn’t know _why_. “It was with the rest of the mail when I got them from the box.” He watches as Iwaizumi reaches out to lift the envelope up, drawing the rough pads of two figures against the characters written in the center before he turns the whole thing one way and then another, examining it. “What is it?”

 

There’s a look on Iwaizumi’s face that Kyoutani can’t quite decipher - an attempt at a stone cold mask, but with a clenched jaw that could be worry or rage. There’s a look in his eyes that for a second looks almost devastated. He kicks his office chair out so he can sit down on it and sighs, flipping the envelope over to pull at the sealed flap.

 

“Nothing good,” he murmurs, more to himself than to Kyoutani.

 

Then Iwaizumi is opening the envelope and Kyoutani stands to move closer and get a better look. His earlier suspicions were right - all that’s inside is a thick, cream piece of card. When it’s free Iwaizumi tosses the green envelope to the side, focussing instead on the golden text embossed into the card. Very high quality. Everything about it is out of place in both Iwaizumi’s hands and the shabby little mechanic’s office.

 

 _The pleasure of your presence is requested to join_  
**_Daisho Suguru and Yamaka Mika_ **  
_in the celebration of their marriage._  
_Accommodation for guests is provided for by the Groom_.

 

Below that is a date, a time and the name of some fancy-sounding hotel Kyoutani has never heard of as he reads over Iwaizumi’s shoulder. Kyoutani hasn’t seen many _physical_ invitations in his lifetime (actually, this might be his first), but he thinks there’s usually some kind of slip or contact information for you to RSVP by. There’s no such thing here. Iwaizumi is still sat in his chair, shoulders slumped as he stares at the card.

 

“Fuck.”

 

Kyoutani lifts a brow.

 

“ _Fuck_ ,” Iwaizumi says again, once more with feeling.

 

“Okay,” Kyoutani says, feeling a little cautious at the way his boss is acting as he straightens up. “Just don’t go then.”

 

Iwaizumi actually huffs out a breath that sounds like a poor attempt at a laugh.

 

“This isn’t the kind of invitation you can turn down,” he says cryptically, flipping the card over to see there’s more writing on the back - this time done by hand, with the same black ink and pristine penmanship that was on the front of the envelope. Kyoutani leans back down, squinting at the words:

 

_Surprise! Long time no see, Iwaizumi-kun, I do hope you’re well. I’m sure you’re happy to hear from me and that you’re looking forward to seeing me and all your old friends! I know that despite the short notice you’ll do everything to be there on the best day of my life. I’ve added a plus one to your name, but I don’t think bringing a lover would go down well, so how about you bring that hoodlum disciple of yours I’ve heard about? See you in three days!!_

 

“‘Hoodlum di--’ What the hell?” Kyoutani asks crossly, snatching the card out of Iwaizumi’s slack grip and holding it in front of his face to glare at the note. “Who the hell is this guy?”

 

“One of the most dangerous men you’ll ever come across,” Iwaizumi responds, staring off into the distance like he’s just seen a ghost. A second later he’s bolting up from the chair and moving to one of his locked filing cabinets, rifling through his pockets for his keys. “Not the kind of man you ever refuse if you know what’s good for you.”

 

Kyoutani glances back down at the card in his hands, the luxurious stationery and nice invitation totally at odds with the jovial, thinly-veiled threats on the other side. Iwaizumi has his back to him, rifling through one of the deep metal drawers before pulling out a manila envelope and upending the contents into his palm - a metal ring with a pair of small, nondescript keys attached to it.

 

Kyoutani feels the familiar fizz of frustration building up in his stomach. He’s so out of the loop here. He doesn’t like it when he doesn’t understand things - something which has been happening less and less lately, which makes the feeling all the worse now.

 

“So what, you’ve been ordered to go to some asshole’s wedding and I have to go, too?”

 

Iwaizumi stands up, twisting his neck so he can give Kyoutani his flat, no bullshitting look. “Yes, exactly. Now bring your bike in and close the damn shutter. Then you’re gonna write a sign that says we’re gonna be gone for a week to stick on the door.” Kyoutani stares at him in disbelief and Iwaizumi’s dark eyebrows drop a little. “Now,” he orders.

 

Iwaizumi doesn’t often take that tone with him, so Kyoutani snaps into action and does as he’s told while Iwaizumi shrugs on his hoodie, then his jacket, and grabs a couple more things from around the room. When Kyoutani is done with his tasks he grabs his own jacket and follows Iwaizumi out the door. His boss locks the door with his own key, checking it twice before he hustles over to his SUV. Once Kyoutani’s inside too he tosses the invitation into his lap and peels out of the lot, heading straight to his own house.

 

“What, are we going _right now_?” Kyoutani asks crossly, craning his neck to look out of the back window, where the turning towards downtown and his apartment is. He hasn’t got where he is today by failing to adapt to situations quickly, but still - this is a little sudden for how normal their lives have been the past couple of years.

 

“Yes,” Iwaizumi-san answers, barely taking the time to flick his blinker on before taking a left-turn a little too fast in the early-morning traffic. “It’s three days from now,” he says, as if he catches Kyoutani’s growing irritation. “That hotel is a day or so’s drive away. I need to grab some stuff on the way-” he pauses as his eyes flicker from side to side, tallying up things Kyoutani can’t fathom “- we need to buy suits.”

 

“Suits?” is his incredulous response, because really - he’s just gotten some weird, cryptic summons from some apparently dangerous asshole on short notice, and Iwaizumi is fretting about what they’re going to _wear_?

 

Iwaizumi throws him another _look_ as he pulls to a stop at the curb in front of his house and kills the engine. “Showing up to an event hosted by Daisho not dressed appropriately can get you killed,” he says sternly, jerking his chin as he opens his door in a gesture for Kyoutani to do the same.

 

They’re walking into the house by the time Iwaizumi deigns to speak again. “Look, I’ll explain everything once we’re on the road-” he promises, using one of the many mysterious keys he has attached to his loop to unlock a small metal box mounted on the wall in the hall closet. “But right now, we need to get going.”

 

Swinging the small door open, he reaches into the box and tosses Kyoutani a-- set of keys? He catches them deftly and looks down, his eyebrows shooting up in surprise when he recognises the emblem.

 

“We’re taking the Chevy?” he asks, unable to stop the wonder in his tone despite how tightly wound the adrenaline has him.

 

Iwaizumi nods solemnly before slamming the small metal door shut, locking it and stepping back out into the hallway. “Grab a bag and throw in some bottles of water from the fridge, and some snacks that’ll keep on the road.”

 

Then he’s running upstairs to grab whatever the hell it is he needs, joining Kyoutani in the garage a few minutes later with a duffle bag once they’re both done and he’s locked the house up. He drops the duffel by Kyoutani’s feet before striding over to the covered mass that dominates the majority of the space. Without ceremony he reaches out two hands to grip the dust sheet and _yanks_.

 

With a snap and a whooshing sound that cuts through the stagnant air of the garage with the force of Iwaizumi’s tug, the musty fabric flies through the air, catching the sunlight for a second as it ripples. It’s like a moment suspended in time, because any time Kyoutani has seen the Monte Carlo it’s always been by accident, usually by virtue of him showing up unannounced at Iwaizumi’s place while he’s working on it. It feels momentous, having it revealed to him with intent for the first time. And it’s beautiful.

 

Kyoutani doesn’t move immediately and neither does Iwaizumi, the dust sheet pooled by his feet and still in the clutches of his right hand. They both just take a few moments to stare at the majestic vehicle in front of them, everything still around them as if time really has frozen, the two of them barely breathing. And then Iwaizumi-san is holding his hand out for the keys wordlessly, and Kyoutani almost trips over himself to dig into his pocket and hand them over. His mentor slots the key into the door and unlocks it, swinging it open and flicking the backrest of the front bench seat down so he can access the back. With less care than Kyoutani had imagined he would afford the vintage beauty, Iwaizumi grabs the bags and throws them into the back seat, one after the other.

 

With that done he pushes the backrest to its rightful place, and hands Kyoutani the keys to his SUV that’s parked out on the street. “Pull it onto the driveway once I’m out,” he says, and Kyoutani drags his eyes away from the eye-catching dark teal and nods, turning to jog out of the garage and down the driveway.

 

Once he’s settled in the seat of Iwaizumi’s regular ride – a hulking black GMC truck, because apparently he likes big cars – Kyoutani is about to turn the key in the ignition when he hears it:

 

A low rumble, like an awakening beast, coming from the garage.

 

It gets louder as the monster rouses, and Kyoutani can only stare through the windshield in awe, hands gripped on the steering wheel as its distinctive bumper and grill comes into view, the car pulling out onto the street as smooth as you like. It sounds even better than Kyoutani had thought it would, and she looks even more beautiful out in the open and under the morning rays than he could have ever imagined. Snapping himself out of his stupor with a shake of his head, Kyoutani starts the SUV, its powerful, new engine sounding completely inconsequential in comparison to the rolling growl of the imposing Chevy so close by, and Kyoutani tries not to draw any comparison between the cars and their drivers as he parks the truck onto Iwaizumi’s driveway.

 

No words are spoken until they’re well out of town, Iwaizumi eventually easing back into the pristine white leather seat and his grip easing on the steering wheel, one hand falling away completely to rest easy on the gear stick. Despite the tension he’s obviously still feeling, Iwaizumi looks totally at ease driving this car. Like he knows the machine intimately. He’s got the look of a man who’s spent countless hours, days, _years_ driving the same vehicle.

 

Kyoutani, on the other hand, feels uneasy. The car is all light-coloured upholstery - everything about it just gorgeous - and he feels almost terrified of doing something to somehow ruin it. He’s never sat in a car this old, where you have to crank the window open yourself and the inside lock is a metal rod that you have to pull up and push down manually instead of just pressing the button - even the radio, which is clearly a new upgrade judging by the CD slot, still has the vintage radio function of having to turn a dial to go between channels. He’s never sat on a bench seat in the front of a car - the different position for the gear stick and lack of divide between passenger and driver (you could fit three people up front easy) sets him inexplicably on edge, like he doesn’t actually know where to position himself.

 

Iwaizumi looks at him out of the corner of his eye and actually chuckles at him, making Kyoutani shoot him a glare in response.

 

“You can relax, you know. You’re gonna be spending a lot of time in this car, might as well get used to it now. Besides, it’s been through a lot. Nothing you can do to it that hasn’t already been done.”

 

Kyoutani fights the urge to glance over his shoulder at the backseat to search out for the ghost of the boy who had slept back there so soundly what must have been years ago.

 

“Sure,” he huffs in response, forcing himself to sink further down the seat, resting his cheek on the door, his temple against the cool glass of the window. “That mean I get to drive it at some point?”

 

Iwaizumi frowns minutely, fingers tightening where they’re holding the old, wide steering wheel. “No one drives this thing but me,” he says in a mumble, not in a way to shoot Kyoutani down, but almost like his mind’s elsewhere. He’s felt like that since his office this morning - distant. Caught in a different time, maybe. Kyoutani doesn’t respond, just reaches up to the dashboard to grab the invitation that had been flung there to read it one more time.

 

_Long time no see!_

_\- me and all your old friends –_

_I don’t think bringing a lover would go down well -_

 

Kyoutani, despite what some people may think, isn’t a fucking idiot. Those parts of the note glare out at him. He can put the pieces together. They’re sitting in the car Iwaizumi keeps locked away in his garage, heading out on what’s basically a road trip at the beck and call of some guy that Iwaizumi daren’t refuse – a guy that had clearly never even _entertained_ the idea that Iwaizumi would even try

 

That past Kyoutani thought they could leave well alone? It’s come back to haunt Iwaizumi, and for whatever reason, Kyoutani is being brought along for the ride.

 

An hour in, Iwaizumi takes a seemingly random exit off the highway - there’s nothing here, just a bunch of fields and a large clump of trees further behind those. Iwaizumi turns down a dirt road that has no purpose other than dissecting a large patch of nowhere, and drives for what must be around a couple of miles before pulling over at the side.

 

“C’mon,” is all he says, stepping out of the car without bothering to slam the door shut behind him, and rounding the vehicle. Kyoutani blinks at the landscape around them one last time before inevitably doing what he’s told, joining Iwaizumi at the trunk, raising a brow at the two shovels and the empty duffel he finds there along with the usual road trip supplies, a tool box, a couple of gas cans and the like. Iwaizumi must have loaded the trunk up after Kyoutani had gone to move the truck.

 

“I think we left the body behind,” Kyoutani quips, rocking on his heels.

 

Iwaizumi just rolls his eyes, grabbing both the shovels and shoving one of them at Kyoutani’s chest. He doesn’t wait for him as he moves to the old wooden fence surrounding the field beside him, visibly counting posts from the left corner, and walking a few meters down to stop in front of one in particular. Kyoutani’s eyes go back to the corner to follow Iwaizumi’s count, at seven he reaches the one Iwaizumi is standing in front of, resting a hand atop it and nodding to himself. The fence is in clear disrepair, with the connecting slats broken or just fully missing in some parts, and low enough that even when it was new it couldn’t have actually done a good job keeping anything in or out. Not that it particularly matters: the land it surrounds is unkempt, with patches of grass and weeds thick and knee-height, and some patches nothing but hard ground - nothing has grazed or been cultivated here for a long, long time.

 

Iwaizumi hops over the barrier into the chaos of the field easily, Kyoutani following dutifully and observing Iwaizumi as he counts out paces under his breath. He stops at twenty, looks down at the ground and then around himself before nodding again. “Here,” he says, looking back at Kyoutani before jerking his chin at the ground. They move in unison, Kyoutani rounding on Iwaizumi so they’re facing each other, and they begin to dig.

 

With the two of them, it doesn’t take long until they strike something other than old, uncultivated dirt. Iwaizumi holds up a hand to signal Kyoutani to stop and he does, joining Iwaizumi in a crouch as the man uses his hand to remove hardened clumps of dirt from the hole, until they can see a patch of shiny navy.

 

Curiosity builds to a crashing crescendo in Kyoutani’s chest as he watches rough hands reach in to brush more soil away, revealing a handle that Iwaizumi flicks up and pulls, dislodging the lockbox from its earthy prison. It’s not small, about the size to cover the width of Kyoutani’s lap. Iwaizumi sets it down on the uneven surface of the dirt they’d tossed aside, and reaches back down into the hole - there’s another box there, which needs a little more coaxing before it can be pulled out to join its twin. Kyoutani stares at them until Iwaizumi pulls out the keys he’d gotten from the envelope in his office, which are clearly a match for the boxes’ locks, and leans forward as Iwaizumi opens them right there in the middle of the field.

 

The first contains cash. Like, it’s completely full of cash - bundled up into units of a uniform amount, stacked and lined up like the metal briefcases you see in the fucking movies. Kyoutani hasn’t seen this much money in one place with his own two eyes maybe ever. Iwaizumi runs his fingers across the bundles, fingers gentle and almost _reverent_ for a second before he pulls away suddenly as if burnt, and upends the whole damn thing without ceremony into the empty duffle bag he’d brought over with him. He switches the empty box between them out for the other one, unlocking that one too to show its bounty – the bottom half is cash, arranged in the same way at the other one, but on top of that lies a stack of credit cards held together with a rubber band, and a smattering of-- holy shit, fake passports and IDs. Kyoutani stares at the box, and then drags his gaze up to Iwaizumi.

 

“Who the fuck _are_ you?” he asks in utter bewilderment, pulling his gaze away from the box to look at Iwaizumi, whose expression is startlingly blank.

 

The man doesn’t bother to answer him, dumping the contents of the second box into the bag as well before zipping it up in one deft swipe of his arm. He snaps the boxes shut and stacks them one on top of the other, standing up and handing them over to Kyoutani, who is forced to straighten up, too. Once those are tucked in one arm, Iwaizumi hands him the duffel.

 

“Put the boxes in the trunk, but keep the duffel with the others in the back,” he orders, nodding to the car and not waiting for Kyoutani to respond before he turns back to fill the hole up with the displaced dirt.

 

Minutes later Kyoutani is sat in the passenger seat, tense from waiting and intrigue, when Iwaizumi finally finishes up, all the equipment stored and trunk shut, sliding into his seat. He doesn’t say anything as he reaches over to the glove compartment, pulling out fucking _wet wipes_ to clean the soil from his hands and under his fingernails. Kyoutani stares as he cleans his hands clinically, cranks the window open so he can toss the balled-up wipes outside, and then starts the car.

 

He’s still staring ten minutes later when they’re back on the highway, Iwaizumi’s cracked-open window letting in roaring wind and playing with his unruly dark locks.

 

“ _Well?_ ” he demands once he can’t take it anymore. He isn’t angry, doesn’t feel betrayed or any of that bullshit, he just can’t _stand_ not being in the know. They don’t keep secrets from each other. That’s their most sacred unspoken rule; one that _Iwaizumi_ had insisted upon.

 

Iwaizumi glances at him out of the corner of his eye - Kyoutani _hates it when he does that_ \- and sighs, turning down the radio he’d switched on once they’d pulled off the dirt road.

 

“It’s nothing you haven’t put together already,” Iwaizumi-san says, and Kyoutani scoffs because he’s just doing this on purpose, now. The corner of Iwaizumi’s mouth quirks up at that and he shrugs his broad shoulders. “I’m serious. I didn’t bat an eye at your criminal record and offered you a job. I taught you how to play card games and how to cheat. I have a vintage car, despite being a small-time local business owner. I taught you how to _pickpocket someone and break ten different types of locks,_ Kentarou.”

 

Kyoutani just furrows his brow even more, crossing his arms in front of him and burrowing down into the seat. He _knows_ all of that.

 

“I know you’ve probably done some investigating of your own, too.”

 

That has Kyoutani seizing up, eyes seeking out Iwaizumi’s without his permission. For a second he’s expecting retribution, some kind of punishment for his behaviour, before he remembers where he is and who he’s with; registers Iwaizumi’s nonchalant tone and the calm gaze staring back at him. Kyoutani settles back down a little uneasily and Iwaizumi just turns his gaze back onto the road ahead of him, looking unbothered. Projecting calm with his easy question: “what did you see?”

 

Kyoutani crosses his arms a little more tightly, turning to look out of the passenger window at the scenery whizzing past, and mutters, “polaroids in your cabinet.”

 

There’s a pause.

 

“Ah,” Iwaizumi says after a couple of seconds, clearly knowing _exactly_ what he’s talking about.

 

It’s quiet for a few minutes, the only sounds in the car the quiet music coming from the radio and the rushing of wind and traffic outside the car. Kyoutani’s still on guard and won’t take his gaze from the world passing by outside.

 

“I think you know by now how similar we are,” Iwaizumi says to break the silence, and Kyoutani can’t help but immediately turn his head to look at him while he’s being spoken to. “I had a shitty childhood. Eventually realized I was better off without my parents and had to fend for myself, started lifting shit to survive. You know that kind of story already.”

 

Kyoutani does, because at the basest level it’s the same as his. Kyoutani has always figured that much, though there’s clear differences, just in the way each of them ended up. Iwaizumi isn’t haunted by the same shit Kyoutani is, but Kyoutani knows there’s ghosts there all the same.

 

“There was this old guy who took care of a few of us, showed us the ropes, then a little later me and some friends split off from the rest and went it alone. Got really good at stealing stuff however we could. Made a lot of money--” He sighs, gripping the steering wheel and Kyoutani feels him press down a little harder on the gas. “It was fucking crazy and amazing for a long time. And then I started thinking about when our luck was gonna run out. We were in pretty deep and I knew eventually it’d be _too_ deep. That shit’s no good for you. Stuff happened and I knew we couldn’t go on forever. So I-- I got out. I took my share of what we had and got out. That’s it.”

 

That’s not _it_ and they both know it. The secret of the polaroids is out already, and Kyoutani wants to glare at Iwaizumi, but doesn’t dare. There’s a big part of the story missing, and it’s fairly obvious it all centers around the guy in the photos. Neither of them bring it up despite the fact it’s almost tangible in the air between them, dangling right in front of their faces.

 

Despite wanting to know, Kyoutani has no choice but to respect Iwaizumi’s choice not to talk about that specifically – they’re fairly close, but neither of them are particularly inclined to discuss or express emotions. But even so, Kyoutani can’t leave _everything_ alone - there’s too much that’s being kept in the dark, and Iwaizumi had promised to _explain_.

 

“And the asshole on the invite?” Kyoutani prods, nodding at the invite he’d tossed back onto the dashboard earlier.

 

Iwaizumi glances at the cream card before looking forward again. “Daisho Suguru,” he says, and usually Iwaizumi-san is so straightforward, but lately he’s been projecting all kinds of conflicting emotions that Kyoutani just can’t keep up with.

 

Apparently, that’s all Iwaizumi’s going to say and suddenly Kyoutani is filled with the irrational but still familiar need to kick at something _hard_ , because he fucking hates saying anything more than is absolutely necessary but Iwaizumi is really making him pull it out of him with more questions. He’s eyeing up the dashboard in consideration before he realises he’d be fucking _dead_ if he took his frustrations out on the interior, no matter what Iwaizumi-san had said earlier.

 

Impatience bleeds clear through Kyoutani’s tone when he prompts “you said he’s one of the most dangerous men you’d ever come across.” In response, Iwaizumi’s mouth twists as he glances in his mirror and changes lanes.

 

“I guess you’d call him a gangster. His family has run one of the biggest syndicates in the country for generations. His father died in mysterious circumstances a few years back and he’s been running the show since. He’s a smarmy little fuck but he’s powerful. And manipulative. He likes to play games.” A pause, and then: “I fucking hate him.”

 

Kyoutani can sympathise - even without the note, this Daisho guy sounds like a complete fucking trashpile. Iwaizumi and Kyoutani are pretty similar: straightforward guys who don’t mince their words or like _games_ , so it’s unsurprising that they dislike exactly the same type of person, a type that seemed to be personified in this mysterious groom.

 

“He hates me too.”

 

Kyoutani slides his eyes back to Iwaizumi at that, and that’s as much of a question as he can be bothered to ask at this point. The other picks up on it, though.

 

“We’ve never gotten along, but we tolerated each other for… business purposes, mostly. There’s no reason to tolerate me anymore.”

 

“Because you went straight,” Kyoutani replies, not framing it as a question.

 

Iwaizumi hums. “...Among other things. Not that he’d admit to those, probably.”

 

They stop a few hours later at a shitty roadside diner, each devouring a burger lunchtime set, and Iwaizumi mainlines coffee with a terrifying nonchalance. They’re back out on the road as soon as possible, and they don’t talk again until the sun has sunk to linger on the horizon behind them, the sky’s vivid streaks of pinks and oranges darkening by the minute.

 

“For him to invite you to his wedding must mean he wants something,” Kyoutani says quietly, staring up at the roof of the car, at long last at ease in the vehicle that’s getting more familiar with each hour they cruise through.

 

Iwaizumi hums, and Kyoutani’s familiar enough with the man’s understated ways to know he approves of Kyoutani’s conclusion. He’s always encouraging him to think, to see the bigger picture.

 

“If he wanted to flaunt the fact he knew where I was and what I was doing, he would have sent a letter, not an invitation. Besides, if that had been it, he would have done that ages ago.”

 

Kyoutani can see just how uncomfortable Iwaizumi is with the fact this Daisho guy had known where he was all along, even if from the sound of the guy’s apparent influence it maybe wasn’t so surprising.

 

“It could be two things,” Iwaizumi continues cryptically. One of the first things the elder had taught Kyoutani in his ‘extracurricular’ education was how to look for and read tells - Kyoutani catches the quickfire glance Iwaizumi sends the invitation before his eyes slip back to the road ahead. They’re both thinking about the note. Suddenly Iwaizumi deflates. “Or it could be both.”

 

As they pass through a town, they drop into a store to pick up extra clothing for the trip, and then a couple hours later they stop for the night at a shitty, shady-looking motel, the neon sign boasting the tacky name of the place flickering in the places it hasn’t died completely.

 

They don’t talk much after that last conversation. Kyoutani can count on two hands the amount of long, deep conversations he and Iwaizumi have had in the two years they’ve known each other - usually they pick up and drop lines of conversation when they feel like it, content to either do their own thing in each other’s presence or hang out in comfortable silence. They don’t say a word to each other as they prepare to bed down for the night in their twin room. It’s strange, sure, but Kyoutani also doubts he could even sleep in the same room if it were anyone else.

 

♠ ♡ ♣ ♢ ♠ ♡ ♣ ♢ ♠ ♡ ♣ ♢ ♠ ♡ ♣ ♢

 

Kyoutani is up with the sunrise again, and he’s crouched beside the Monte Carlo with his bags at his feet, a shitty vending machine coffee and two cigarettes down when Iwaizumi comes out of the door. Kyoutani hadn’t even thought of grabbing the keys to unlock the car himself, and Iwaizumi says nothing until he’s back from checking out and they’ve loaded the car up.

 

“Be there in time for lunch,” he says, perched on the end of the large hood of the monstrous car, legs splayed as he takes a drag from his first Lucky Strike of the day, his own coffee cup from the vending machine perched on the shiny teal beside him.

 

The sight of it had given the reassurance Kyoutani had needed - clearly Iwaizumi isn’t as anal about the car as it would seem on first sight, so he’s slowly touring around the outside of the car, trailing his fingers (still a little hesitant) along its strong, sleek lines. He ends the circuit at the left headlight, tracing around the chrome square fixture surrounding the glass, and nods dutifully at the information.

 

Iwaizumi flicks the cigarette butt to the cracked, sunbaked asphalt of the parking lot, crushing it under his boot and grabs his coffee. “We’re gonna need to buy those suits when we get there,” he says next, and it sounds like a warning ahead of time. “Nice ones.” Neither of them is the type to care about that kind of thing, so they share a sigh. “Before that though, we gotta fill her up.”

 

Kyoutani meets Iwaizumi’s gaze over the roof of the car, barely biting back an incredulous-sounding _again?_ Iwaizumi just grins and pats the car affectionately before he climbs in, and Kyoutani rolls his eyes before ducking to slide in too. Obscene gas guzzler was right. Kyoutani thinks that besides it being too conspicuous for someone who wants to lie low, that’s _got_ to be at least part of why Iwaizumi doesn’t drive it often. He’d have burnt through all his stashes of illegal cash by now, surely.

 

The vacuous, barren land that he’d gotten used to being spread either side of them on their drive starts to evolve into something more habitable as they cruise along. Shrubs and trees begin to pop up in the landscape, getting more and more frequent until they’re joined by houses, which turn into neighborhoods and suburbs. Soon enough, the buildings shoot up into the sky, becoming a city. Not just any city, though - a sin city. Kyoutani has never been here, but he knows the place’s reputation as a den for gamblers, crooks and wild party-goers. They cut through both pleasant and sketchy parts of the outer-limits before they reach the ‘glamour’ of the center, full of strips of bars and casinos and the grand, mammoth hotels that each dominate the scope of Kyoutani’s vision as they cruise past.

 

When Iwaizumi reaches the hotel he’s looking for he pulls in, joining the valet queue for more distinguished guests without hesitation. People have been stopping to stare at the Monte Carlo as it sails past them on the city streets, and even now in this line of nice cars (and even a damn _limo)_ it still stands out, the prettiest girl at the pageant. Kyoutani cranes his neck to check the sign for the hotel and frowns.

 

“This isn’t the name on the invite,” he says, because he might not be able to speak French but he can at least vaguely recall its spelling. “I thought they had rooms paid for there.”

 

Iwaizumi snorts as he makes the car crawl forward a couple meters as the line moves. “There’s no fucking way I’m staying there,” he says, and Kyoutani can’t help but turn at him in his disbelief at the petulant tone. Iwaizumi raises his brows. “It’s his hotel. I don’t want him knowing exactly which room I’m in, and I don’t want to owe him anything.” Kyoutani rolls his eyes and watches as the car two in front of them gets driven away by a valet. “Besides,” Iwaizumi adds as they watch a wrinkly old man and a woman young enough to be his granddaughter climb out of the Porsche in front of them. “He’ll have made sure to reserve us the worst fucking room. I’d rather just pay for something nice on the opposite side of the city.”

 

“Well, you better be paying for me, too.”

 

♠ ♡ ♣ ♢ ♠ ♡ ♣ ♢ ♠ ♡ ♣ ♢ ♠ ♡ ♣ ♢

 

Getting a bespoke suit fitted is probably one of the worst experiences of Kyoutani’s life up til now, and that’s really saying a lot.

 

He isn’t really one for the finer things in life (except maybe for cars like Iwaizumi-san’s) so he’s immediately on edge the moment Iwaizumi leads him to an old storefront in the west side of the city. It’s a one-story building, with a wooden front painted green and large windows with gold lettering on them, spelling words like ‘BESPOKE’ and ‘TRADITIONAL’ and other supposedly impressive stuff.

 

Iwaizumi pushes open the door and there’s an honest-to-god bell that dingles softly as they enter - not a mechanic beep that cuts through the air uncomfortably like he’s used to in the convenience stores back home. From what he can see, there’s not a security camera in sight. Inside is all polished dark wood, with immaculately-dressed mannequins, stacks of fine fabric and rails of ready-to-wear suits. There’s a _wall_ dedicated entirely to silk ties and pocket squares. Kyoutani stops and tries to turn on his heel to get the fuck out but Iwaizumi just shoots him a _look,_ keeping him in place _._ An old man appears out of nowhere, and stares at Iwaizumi through wire glasses with thick lenses, watery-looking eyes barely blinking for an uncomfortable amount of time.

 

“Iwaizumi-kun??” the ancient man asks after another long moment and Iwaizumi huffs, smiles a little. The man rears back a step. “I thought you were dead!!” he exclaims, and the small smile drops from Iwaizumi’s face as quick as lightning, replaced with one of his scowls.

 

He half-turns away to finger at the sleeve of a sleek blazer. “Did _he_ tell you that?” Iwaizumi asks accusingly, and the old man just shrugs in confirmation.

 

“Well, you know what that boy’s like,” the old man says, gesturing for them to follow him as he moves deeper into the store, through an arched doorway that leads to what looks like some kind of fitting room. “Always so dramatic.”

 

Kyoutani thinks he hears Iwaizumi sigh before he pulls away from the rack to trail after the stranger.

 

“You’re here for the wedding, I presume?” the old man continues breezily once they’ve joined him in there, walking around the raised platform in the center of the room. The mirrors that make up the walls multiply him in their reflections, each offering an equally unflattering angle of his small, decrepit form. Old people make Kyoutani uneasy. The man is looking around for something, rifling through his desk and a built-in cubby of shelves in the wall next to it.

 

Iwaizumi shoves his hands in his pockets as he watches the old tailor putter around. After another couple of minutes Iwaizumi coughs to get his attention, and then gestures at his own neck. The man looks down at himself, feels around his shoulders and exclaims a soft ‘oh!’ as his fingers find the yellow tape measure he has draped around his neck.

 

“Should have figured there was a broken heart involved,” he says, as if anyone had _asked_. Kyoutani is too busy watching Iwaizumi wincing to notice that he’s now the focus of the busybody’s attention. “Bit of a downgrade though Iwaizumi-kun, if you don’t mind me saying.”

 

 _Anyone_ would mind him fucking saying - if he means what Kyoutani thinks he does - and he’d growl at him, or _something,_ if he wasn’t speechless at the very insinuation that _he and Iwaizumi_ \--

 

“No,” Iwaizumi says very firmly. “This is Kyoutani. My _apprentice_.”

 

The old man leans back and nods. “Oh, I see. Makes a lot more sense. He doesn’t seem your type.” Iwaizumi-san actually looks embarrassed them, dropping his face into his palm, and Kyoutani’s shoulders are drawn up in mortification and the need to seriously maim.

 

The tailor remains oblivious to the mood of the room, and gestures impatiently at Kyoutani. “Never seen a suit in your life, have you boy?” He asks rhetorically, pulling the tape measure from round his own neck. “He’s just like you were, Iwaizumi-kun.” Aged eyes blink over at Kyoutani before he waves at the podium. “Now up you get.”

 

Kyoutani never wants to be so near to an old man’s spidery hands ever again.

 

Getting measured was so uncomfortable that just simply being in the high-class tailors doesn’t bother Kyoutani so much afterwards. Once you’ve had an old man measure your inseam, feeling vaguely out of place is nothing. He can’t feel anything but relief as he sits slumped in an armchair whilst Iwaizumi gets re-measured ‘after such a long time, honestly!’ looking totally at ease. Kyoutani wants to glare, feeling like he’s lost to Iwaizumi yet again despite not even realising they were competing.

 

The old man sees them out of the store, saying he’ll pick out the cut and fabrics himself as always, as if Iwaizumi and certainly Kyoutani aren’t to be trusted doing so. He grumbles about it being such short notice but then reveals with a fond pat to Iwaizumi’s shoulder that the other suits he’d been commissioned to make for the wedding are finished already, and that he’;; have them done by the end of the next day, ready for the wedding party the following evening.

 

Then Iwaizumi drags Kyoutani into a fucking old-timey barbershop, where they get a haircut and a clean shave - it had put Kyoutani on edge, that was for sure, but even he couldn’t deny the end result. It still probably wasn’t worth a stranger touching him and holding a blade so close to his throat, though. After that, they finally hit up another diner for much-needed food before returning to their hotel.

 

Iwaizumi has gotten them separate but connecting rooms, blessedly giving them each their own space for the first time in over a whole _day_ , where they could make the most of the high-quality facilities and catch up on the sleep they’d been deprived of by both the shitty motel and the endless hours on the road.

 

♠ ♡ ♣ ♢ ♠ ♡ ♣ ♢ ♠ ♡ ♣ ♢ ♠ ♡ ♣ ♢

 

Iwaizumi decides Kyoutani needs to polish up on his ‘alternative skills’ the next day, so he spends the morning obsessively going over everything he’s ever taught him, and then making _Kyoutani_ go over everything again himself. They recount their rules at least seven times in half as many hours, and then they’re dressed and out on the strip to do it for real.

 

Every time Iwaizumi has had Kyoutani practice in the real world it’s been at the local farmer’s market or some random bar or busy event. Every time he successfully lifted something Iwaizumi had made sure it ended up handed into Lost and Found or the authorities (which kind of goes against the whole point, Kyoutani thinks), but today he says that both the tourists and the locals in this place are the certified worst of humanity, so Kyoutani can keep anything he really wants to.

 

It’s a thrill, he can’t deny that. Stealing stuff had been a fact of his life for so long as a youngster that Kyoutani can’t feel bad about it when he bumps into someone and steals the wallet right from their pocket. And that’s pretty much what he sticks to the small handful of times he goes in for the lift, careful not to overdo it - just the classic phone or wallet taken right from the pocket of an unsuspecting mark.

 

Iwaizumi had gone over how to remove someone’s jewelry in the past, but it’s clear that’s a technique that requires more skill and confidence than he’s capable of. Iwaizumi can do it, Kyoutani _knows,_ but the other man just stays off to the side where he can see what Kyoutani’s doing. He’s never seen the older man doing any of that stuff aside from the times he’s painstakingly gone over technique in slow motion with Kyoutani when they’ve been alone, and the one memorable instance he’d taken a man’s wallet so quick Kyoutani hadn’t even known he’d got it until Iwaizumi was sitting back and thumbing through it nonchalantly.

 

Not for the first time, Kyoutani wonders if Iwaizumi’s ever stolen from him without him ever noticing just for the hell of it. It wouldn’t surprise him.

 

That evening they sit on the floor of Kyoutani’s hotel room, going over the contents of three wallets placed between them and eating the room service they’d ordered as soon as they’d gotten back. They’re examining a set of credit cards when the screen of Iwaizumi’s phone lights up, buzzing repeatedly to signal an incoming call. He leans over to check the caller, freezing at whatever he sees before picking the device up and standing. “I gotta take this,” he says without looking at Kyoutani.

 

He taps the screen and presses the phone to his ear. “Yo,” he says, and Kyoutani watches as he heads through the open balcony doors, “wondered when I’d be getting a call from you-- Yeah, it’s true.” A pause as he apparently listens to someone on the other end of the line. “I got an invitation, what was I supposed to do?” A derisive snort. “Yeah.” A longer pause and Iwaizumi freezes, listening to the mystery caller despite the fact it’s clearly something he doesn’t want to hear. He turns back around, catches sight of Kyoutani and seems to remember he’s not alone, and heads to the door that connects their rooms. “I figured as much. Yeah.” And then the one-sided conversation is muffled as Iwaizumi shuts the door behind himself for a little more privacy. Kyoutani stares at it for a moment, before shrugging it off and turning back to rifle through the credit cards in his hand. Not his business.

 

Well, not yet, anyway.

 

♠ ♡ ♣ ♢ ♠ ♡ ♣ ♢ ♠ ♡ ♣ ♢ ♠ ♡ ♣ ♢

 

The next day is the main event of their trip. Blessedly, Iwaizumi leaves Kyoutani to sleep in and entertain himself for the morning and the early afternoon while he goes out to ‘run some errands’ and pick up their suits from the tailor. Kyoutani isn’t sorry to miss out on seeing the creepy old man again, much preferring his schedule of sitting around in his boxers, watching TV and, because Iwaizumi is paying, ordering cereal from room service and sampling the drinks in the minibar. He’s just done with the shower - not enjoying the multi jet function as much as he’d hoped - when Iwaizumi gets back, knocking on the door connecting their rooms.

 

There’s a stressed set to his mouth when Kyoutani opens it up, and Kyoutani doesn’t know what Iwaizumi’s been doing the past couple of hours; whether it’s the day so far or what’s to come that’s got him in such a mood. He doesn’t bother saying anything - just takes the bags from Iwaizumi’s hands and places them on the bed once the other man has disappeared back behind the door.

 

He stares for a moment, feeling awkward about how uncomfortable he feels as he stands there with his hands in the pockets of his sweatpants. He’s never owned a suit before. Hell, he’s never _worn_ one. Never had the occasion to. And suddenly, in the blink of an eye he’d been jerked from his pretty damn okay life into a cross-country jaunt on the whim of some random, obnoxious guy. Iwaizumi, as questionable as he’d always been, was still the most stable, constant figure in his life and now - well, who the fuck knows who he is, really. Kyoutani can’t deny he’s glad that Iwaizumi trusts him enough to reveal so much of his past to him, but at the same time, he’s frustrated, and maybe just a little scared. Things had been fine the way they were, right?

 

Now Kyoutani is in this strange place, in this strange fucking hotel room that’s far too nice to have someone like him stay in it, about to wear a custom-made suit for some strange, fancy party. His gaze turns into a vicious glare and then he’s shaking his head to force the thoughts out of his head. He’s being a coward.

 

Decisively, he stalks to the end of the bed, takes the zipper in hand and opens the suit bag, fighting for a moment to unhook the hanger and pull it and the suit attached to it out of its protective covering. The black nylon falls to the floor, and Kyoutani carefully lays the suit out onto the sheets, instead.

 

It’s amazing. The blazer and matching pants are navy, a deep colour but with a certain lustre that probably speaks of a high-quality fabric. Kyoutani doesn’t know much about nice or expensive clothes; all he knows is that it looks good. He checks behind himself, a little paranoid despite knowing there’s no one around to watch him, before leaning down to stroke a curious hand down one perfectly pressed lapel. It even _feels_ good.

 

With a little more determination, he unfastens the buttons and flips one half of the jacket back, revealing a smooth and shiny silver lining, the tag for the tailor’s shop stitched into it. He’s going to be wearing this. He has absolutely no desire to know how much this cost, especially to get it done so quickly. He pulls the trousers that had been folded carefully over the bottom rung of the hanger and sets them off to the side carefully. There’s a shirt too of course, crisp white fabric and small, round buttons.

 

With an absent-minded scratch to his cheek, he resolves to just getting this over with, shucking out of his T-shirt and sweatpants and unbuttoning the dress shirt so he can pull it on. It feels good, but he doesn’t dare look in the mirror just yet. Instead he reaches for the pants, pulling them on and clumsily tucking his shirt into them before fastening them up. He hasn’t worn anything but jeans or sweats (and shop overalls) since school, and it’s kind of weird, but they fit so well that they’re not exactly uncomfortable. They fit perfectly, actually.

 

He huffs at the thought, because of course they do - they were literally _made_ for him.

 

He leaves the jacket for now, instead pulling the shoe box closer to him. Inside is a pair of tan leather dress shoes in his size and a pair of brand new socks - apparently one of Iwaizumi’s errands had included him picking up the extra shit they hadn’t thought of. Kyoutani lifts one of the shoes from the box and examines it from different angles as if it’s some weird relic from another world. These are expensive too, he can tell from the smell and feel of the leather. He perches on the end of the bed, mildly concerned about creasing his pants, and pulls on the socks and shoes, surprised by how comfortable they are already. He fastens his laces tightly, fussing over how the bows look for a couple of minutes before he’s satisfied.

 

For a moment he just sits there, staring down at his own feet and rubbing his hands over his knees, surprised at the fact he isn’t revolting at the whole scenario. Kyoutani has always scoffed at the kind of people who went to such pains for their appearance, spending far too much on clothes and fussing over every detail, but… He thinks he can kind of understand, now. It feels pretty good to be wearing this sort of stuff. He forces himself to stand, smoothing down the front of his shirt before plucking the jacket off the bed, swinging it behind him and sliding his arms through the sleeves. It’s only then that he allows himself to turn towards the full-length mirror opposite the bed.

 

What he sees there catches him off-guard for sure. It’s still _him,_ the same old reflection he’s always seen - the same hair, the same sharp eyes with dark shadows beneath, the same jawline and yet… It’s a version of himself he’s never seen before. The Kyoutani reflected back at him looks like he has his shit together. It isn’t until now that he’s been able to see the effect of the haircut Iwaizumi had insisted he get a couple of days ago - it’s a lot neater than it normally is and means the precisely-tailored clothes he’s wearing don’t look quite so out of place on him. His body’s exactly the same as it was this morning, of course, but encased in the sleek lines of the expertly-cut suit, he looks and feels more grown up, more like a _man_ than he’s ever felt before.

 

He can’t help himself from turning this way and that way just slightly, taking the sight of himself in. He doesn’t look as ridiculous as he’d secretly feared. In fact, far from it. He smooths down the blazer with clumsy, rough hands, and feels a thickness in the left pocket; when he reaches inside, his fingers find the lustre of silk, and just like that, inadequacy and apprehension hit him like a wall of ice cold water.

 

Kyoutani pulls the strip of fabric from his pocket, a rich burgundy color, and stares at it.

 

He doesn’t know how to fasten a tie.

 

Why would he ever need to know? When would the situation ever arise that he’d have to learn?

 

Well, whatever. He can tie his fucking shoe laces. He knows how to take an engine apart and put it back together again, for fuck’s sake. It can’t be rocket science. Flipping his shirt collar up so the starched material obscures the dark skin of his neck, he loops the tie carefully around it and stands in front of the mirror with his jaw set in determination.

 

The resolve lasts a couple of aborted attempts before he gives up completely.

 

With a short, hissed curse through gritted teeth, he storms over to the connector door and knocks before he loses his resolve. This isn’t the first time he’s asked Iwaizumi for help and he’s not naive to think it’s anywhere close to the last time, either. There’s minimal shuffling from the other side before Iwaizumi opens up, already dressed in his charcoal slacks but with his white shirt only half-buttoned up. Flint eyes flicker from Kyoutani’s eyes down his frame, before moving back up again. He steps back to pull the door open wider, and Kyoutani takes the wordless invitation. He doesn’t move far into the room though, and immediately beginning to feel awkward as he starts to linger, hands in his trouser pockets.

 

“That’s a good cut on you,” Iwaizumi says of the suit with a nod of approval, before Kyoutani can even begin to formulate how he’s going to say.

 

It turns out he doesn’t need to say a word when Iwaizumi steps up to him, his rough fingers taking both ends of the unfastened tie still hanging around Kyoutani’s neck. He doesn’t speak before he begins to work on a knot, and Kyoutani relaxes considerably, his own eyes falling to awkwardly watch Iwaizumi’s hands, too.

 

This is why he’d taken Iwaizumi’s initial offer of employment; why he chose to stick around and not fuck it up by pulling his usual shit; why he knocked on the door just moments ago. Kyoutani had never been much good with words, even worse with lowering his head or baring his neck. It’s some sort of pride thing, he guesses. Showing weakness and asking for help isn’t something he’s ever been comfortable with, but it’s always felt a little easier with Iwaizumi. In fact, not even once has Iwaizumi ever forced him to ask if he wasn’t comfortable or ready, as a power-play or ego-boost or whatever else. He just seems to _get_ it. Maybe they really are alike.

 

There’s a soft _fwip_ sound of silk sliding against silk, and Iwaizumi tightens the finished knot before tugging at one of the ends so it fits snugly at the base of Kyoutani’s throat, but not too tight nor too sudden to make it uncomfortable. He frowns as he surveys his work critically for a second, before stepping back with a nod. Without a word, Kyoutani turns towards the mirror mounted on the wall. He flips the collar down and takes a couple more steps closer, to survey the image that’s finally complete.

 

“You look good, Kentarou.”

 

Kyoutani had been in his own head a little, eyes on his reflection and fingertips on the smooth burgundy of the tie, but Iwaizumi’s words jerk him out. It’s rare that Iwaizumi’s voice has that soft, proud quality, and even rarer still that the elder man uses his given name. Kyoutani never knows what to do with himself or how he feels when he does – like something in him settles. He cranes his neck to look at the other, and Iwaizumi is watching him calmly as he finishes fastening the remaining open buttons of his own shirt.

 

It’s encouragement and it’s pride and it’s trust in the casual and honest way Iwaizumi freely hands over to him more often than he deserves. It’s impossible to meet his gaze any longer, so Kyoutani turns his eyes back to his own reflection, slipping his hands back into his pockets to stop their unconscious movements.

 

As they always are, his emotions are all knotted up with each other, confused and conflicting and suspicious of each other. So he gives himself a moment, stepping over to look out the window, as if the sky above and the city’s monuments to capitalism below can help him sort them all out, isolate them from each other and lock them all away. He listens as Iwaizumi finishes dressing himself and only looks when the movement behind him stops and Iwaizumi speaks again.

 

“I’ll teach you how to do that, and whatever else when we get home.”

 

That’s not Iwaizumi’s job. That’s something a father teaches his son, or something a big brother passes down to his younger sibling. It’s not Iwaizumi’s job to take care of him and try to help him conquer his many inadequacies or save him from himself or the messes he gets himself in or teach him things he doesn’t know. It’s much too late for all of that - or at least, that’s what he’d told himself before Iwaizumi involved himself in Kyoutani’s life. He wants to say all this and more - he’s wanted to say this _so many times_ \- but just like all the other times, he just turns his eyes to the ground, his hands clenching into fists in his pockets.

 

Iwaizumi doesn’t need to do any of the stuff he does for Kyoutani, but he does it anyway. And Kyoutani is glad for it.

 

Kyoutani can’t help the way the words - an offer flung out without an ulterior motive and a calm promise that they can still go back to their peaceful limbo - put him at ease. He doesn’t like change. He doesn’t take to it well. Things had been so stable before all of this that Kyoutani had forgotten what it felt like to be so uncertain.

 

Glancing back up at Iwaizumi, he sees the charcoal three-piece suit, white shirt and teal tie, sees how he’s dressed up to the nines and clearly comfortable with it, looking like a completely different person, and yet… And yet, he still has that calm, in-control expression Kyoutani has always found himself seeking out for reassurance. Iwaizumi looks completely different, but he also looks the same as always. Suddenly, things feel a lot less unsure.

 

There’s just something about Iwaizumi that puts him at ease.

 

They climb into the Monte Carlo and drive across the city, and Kyoutani finally lays his eyes on the hotel that had been written on the invitation currently nestled in Iwaizumi’s inner breast pocket. It’s around the same size as the one Iwaizumi had booked them into, but whereas theirs was a clean, crisp new build, this one looks a little older. It’s not rundown by any stretch - it just has the vibe of somewhere with history, with a class that can’t necessarily be designed or manufactured.

 

The building is a sandy color and reminds Kyoutani of the European villas you see in holiday brochures or Hollywood films, with large, arched windows on the bottom floor and a grand entrance with arches and pillars and leafy green plants. Twilight is quick approaching, and with the gradually-darkening sky all sorts of lights have been turned on, amongst the plants and onto the sign for the hotel, and around the entrance of the building. The place is bustling with activity that can only be related to the wedding, employees coming and going, guests arriving on foot and by car and lingering in the entryway to smoke and obnoxiously mingle.

 

“The ceremony already happened,” Iwaizumi says as they pull up into the drive and wait once again to make it to the front of the valet queue. Kyoutani immediately feels relief - he hadn’t been looking forward to sitting through that, and judging by the look on Iwaizumi’s face, he’s glad to be missing out too.

 

“How d’you know?” he asks, not because he doubts he’s right, but because the invitation hadn’t been so specific on _what_ exactly they’d be attending.

Iwaizumi snorts as they stop in front of the wide steps in front of the grand entrance. “That guy would never want me at his actual wedding,” is all he says before he opens his door and steps out. Kyoutani does the same, and Iwaizumi grins at him over the top of the door. “Plus, just because I don’t mix with this shit anymore doesn’t mean I don’t still have friends that do.” Kyoutani recalls the phone call Iwaizumi had received the day before as he slams his door shut (he feels Iwaizumi’s glare at the treatment of the Chevy as the man hands over his keys to the nervous-looking valet) and wonders who had been on the other end of the line, and if he’ll get to meet them tonight.

 

He catches up to Iwaizumi halfway up the steps, and Iwaizumi glances at him out of the corner of his eye as they continue to ascend.

 

“There’s gonna be a lot of obnoxious people here. Obnoxious, powerful, and probably dangerous. So please, no matter what they say, don’t give them any attitude. That means talking shit - don’t give me that look,” Kyoutani scoffs and turns away, because Iwaizumi’s not his damn mother and therefore has no business pointing at him like that. “I mean it. And definitely no fucking fighting, Kentarou. I’d prefer it if we ended the night _not_ dead.”

 

With that they’re in the lobby, crossing across the gleaming marble floor warmly illuminated by the chandelier above them, and ascending the split staircase in front of them to reach the entrance of the banquet hall. Iwaizumi pulls out the invite and flashes it to one of the pairs of questionable-looking men posted either side of the wide door, who examines it closely and then gestures through the door.

 

And then they’re inside.

 

It’s a huge space - though Kyoutani shouldn’t really be surprised, with how large the building itself is. The ceiling is high, the occasional mid-size chandelier dotting its expanse, though their light is dimmer than perhaps they usually are, likely to emphasise the warm, bright uplighting set against the ivory of the wall drapes behind the head table and the dancefloor that spans one half of the room.

 

The guest seating covers the other half, round tables covered with thick tablecloths of a pale dusky pink, almost rose gold, its embroidery looking like lace. The table settings aren’t upstaged by the grandeur of the room, with gold plates, burgundy napkins and crystal glasses. Candles and an elegant bouquet of cream and dark red flowers act as the centerpiece for each table. A few sets of French doors are evenly spaced out along one wall, open with their soft linen drapes pulled aside, presumably leading to a patio or balcony of some sort.

 

There’s an honest-to-god live band playing a pleasant piece in the far corner, close to the dancefloor but an acceptable distance away from the tables to create ambience but not hamper any conversation - it’s clear absolutely no expense has been spared for this function. Kyoutani takes all of this in with an awe he tries his hardest to conceal, trailing ever so slightly behind Iwaizumi as he strides across the room.

 

When Kyoutani manages to tear himself away from their surroundings, he starts to notice the people. They’re all as glamorous and rich-looking as you’d expect, and most of them are too absorbed in either themselves, whatever pretty piece they brought to hang off their arm, or whoever they’re mingling with. Some of them, though - some of them are _staring._ At Iwaizumi to be more specific, and by extension, Kyoutani.

 

Kyoutani doesn’t like being stared at. It makes his hackles raise. They pass a man, who’s only really noticeable from the way his long limbs stretch out from where he’s lounged on a chair and from the mess of black hair atop his head, who stares at Iwaizumi, raises a brow and whistles lowly in what looks like disbelief. Iwaizumi ignores him and keeps moving, just like he ignores the other few stares or whispers his presence receives, so Kyoutani just follows his example. No one approaches them, though he can tell some want to. He’s confused as to why, until he spots a man heading straight for them.

 

The stranger making his way forward is dressed in an impeccable and clearly expensive tux, dark hair in an immaculate side part and swept back. He’s around Kyoutani and Iwaizumi’s height - average - with a slight build: Kyoutani has seen many far more physically-imposing men. And yet-- and yet there’s something about him that’s _dangerous_ , that has Kyoutani’s now usually-dormant survival instincts rearing up. It’s the way he looks completely at ease in the expensive clothes, in the grand events hall, and the way the crowd of people part for him so easily. It’s the way his movement has caught _everyone’s_ attention.

 

The music doesn’t stop and the murmurings of previous conversations don’t seem to die, but the atmosphere in the room changes - even the people who had been too preoccupied previously are noticing them now. Clearly a lot of people have been waiting for this confrontation. Iwaizumi slows to a stop, sliding one hand into the pocket of his slacks, waiting for the man to make it to them.

 

Kyoutani knows, without needing anyone to tell him, that this is Daisho Suguru.

 

“Hajime,” he greets, with the tone and confidence of a man who owns the world around him. His voice is like a dagger wrapped in silk, smooth and welcoming on the surface, but with a danger lurking beneath if you know what to look for. “ _So_ glad you could make it. What’s a wedding without all your old acquaintances there to celebrate with you?”

 

Daisho has the barest of lisps as he speaks, but it doesn’t do anything to harm the vibe he’s projecting. If anything, it makes his narrow-eyed gaze and insincere slit of a smile seem all the more reptilian.

 

Kyoutani already fucking hates him. Iwaizumi does too - even if he hadn’t already known, then his mentor’s split-second reaction when he was greeted by his given name would have been a clear enough indication for Kyoutani. To Iwaizumi’s credit though, his stance stays easy and relaxed, the line of his shoulders slack and his expression (mostly) impassive.

 

“Of course. You’d have to be a fool to turn down an invitation from Daisho Suguru,” Iwaizumi replies, and the meaning behind the choice of words is all too clear for anyone in earshot. This isn’t the first time Kyoutani has realised Iwaizumi-san has _balls_ , but it’s the first time he really comes to appreciate how fucking cool it is that he never seems to feel intimidation.

 

Daisho’s sinister wisp of a smile never falters though, and he just tips his head as if in agreeance with him.

 

“Why would anyone want to?” he asks - rhetorical question - just the barest flash of white teeth before his head tilts to the other side in a sway that’s almost not human, eyes settling on Kyoutani. This close, he can see that the man’s tux isn’t black like it had first appeared - it’s actually a green so dark it only appears to be black. It’s only when the satin lapels catch the smooth lighting just right that you can tell.

 

“Ah, the apprentice~” Daisho almost coos, and the hairs on the back of Kyoutani’s neck prickle in annoyance and something else. He doesn’t realise that he’s pulling a face in unconscious response until Daisho’s eyebrows tick upwards minutely before the smirk at his lips curves up a notch. “Oh, when he pulls that face he looks _just_ like a young you, Hajime. Birds of a feather really do flock together, hm?” Kyoutani forces his face to go somewhere closer to blank and Iwaizumi casts him the barest glance before his gaze settles back to Daisho-- back to the threat.

 

“I heard the ceremony was beautiful,” Iwaizumi says, making conversation but not really seeming sincere. “And that the bride looked breath-taking, and incredibly happy. I hope you’ll pass my congratulations onto Mika-san.”

 

Daisho cuts a calculating look Iwaizumi’s way for the briefest of moments, before his expression shifts back to his unsettling, placid mask once more. “Only the best for my wife,” he agrees affably, with a casual flap of his hand. “The only person I’m happy to let upstage me.”

 

Daisho turns his head to look back at the crowd he’d come from, the split he’d made on his approach still there and making the young woman in a form-fitting fishtail gown in the centre visible. Even this far away, it’s clear to see she’s glowing in a way that could only identify her as the bride, laughing freely at one of the people surrounding her. Kyoutani can’t see Daisho’s expression, but the way he pauses for a moment to watch her makes it seem like he forgets what he’s doing, if only for a second.

 

“I’ll be sure to let her know,” he finishes after another breath, turning back to Iwaizumi and Kyoutani and once more seeming entirely insincere. It’s painfully obvious that the bride will not be receiving Iwaizumi’s well wishes, but Iwaizumi doesn’t look particularly bothered. Daisho’s smirk comes back stretched even wider across his pale face. “Speaking of, I should really get back to her. Wouldn’t want to abandon a loved one, would I? It’s been an absolute pleasure to see you again after all this time Hajime, _truly_.” The shit-eating smirk Daisho fires Iwaizumi’s way shows that he isn’t even trying to put on airs anymore. He radiates the confidence of a man who can say or do whatever he wants and _knows_ he’s untouchable.

 

“But I won’t monopolise you - I expect you’ll be able to reconnect with a lot more people tonight,” Daisho turns on the heel of his shiny black shoes without a sound, ready to stroll back over to where he came from any second. Olive green eyes flash over his shoulder as he casts one final glance at Iwaizumi. "I’m sure some of them will be happy to see you, even. Other people might be less pleased, if you know what - or _who_ \- I mean.” His tone is jovial, but beneath it Kyoutani can practically hear the knife twisting into the flesh between Iwaizumi’s ribs as Daisho turns away from them once more - words meant to make a point, meant to agitate an old wound or perhaps even make a new one. “Oh and Hajime, try not to cause a scene on my special day.”

 

 _That_ makes Iwaizumi’s expression turn serious, eyes darkening and brow furrowing ever so slightly.

 

And with that Daisho is gone, a single, jaunty hop to set him on his way before he’s striding smoothly back across the empty dancefloor, chin held high and completely confident under the room’s attention. Kyoutani’s skin feels a smidge too tight for his body.

 

“Wow, what an _ass,_ ” Kyoutani mutters as he watches him go, and it’s really worth his lack of brain-to-mouth filter when he sees the newly-wound tension leave Iwaizumi’s shoulders and hears the man’s snigger.

 

“That was Daisho being civil,” Iwaizumi tells him with an ironic smile.

 

Kyoutani’s about to ask what the Hell Daisho meant with his last couple of parting shots, but just as he opens his mouth he feels someone else approach. He turns, taking in mussed, curly hair, sleepy eyes and looming _height_.

 

“What the _Hell_ are you doing here?” the newcomer asks Iwaizumi in a deep baritone, and it sounds threatening for all of a second - Kyoutani tensing - before a smile spreads on his mouth and a large hand settles on Iwaizumi’s shoulder, reeling him in. Iwaizumi returns the quick back-slapping hug, before pulling back.

 

“You’re a welcome fucking sight, Matsukawa,” Iwaizumi responds, sending the tall man a toothy grin, genuinely pleased to see him.

 

Matsukawa, apparently, huffs, sticking his hands in his pockets and rocking on the balls of his feet. “Yeah, how’d you enjoy your chat with the groom? Looked like your ass was getting reamed for a second back there.”

 

Iwaizumi snorts. “Hardly. Hey, where’s--”

 

Long arms invade Kyoutani’s peripheral vision before he even registers the presence of an extra person behind him, and then he sees a flash of pale blond/pink and a mischievous grin. “Iwaizumi-kun,” the second newcomer drawls, voice surprisingly low for a man with hair that colour and a grin that wide. The arms that had wrapped Iwaizumi’s neck in an embrace from behind tighten to look suspiciously more like a chokehold, and Iwaizumi looks a little uncomfortable.

 

“Speak of the devil. Hanamaki, don’t make me toss you to the ground in front of all these people. Daisho _just_ told me not to make a scene,” he says gruffly, and said man pulls back with a laugh, practically dancing around Iwaizumi to half drape himself against Matsukawa.

 

“Long time no see, Iwaizumi. Even if I did just speak to you on the phone yesterday,” Hanamaki winks and oh - that’s one less mystery for Kyoutani to solve.

 

Iwaizumi just looks at the two of them for a moment, a small smile on his face. “Man, I missed you two. Nothing like seeing your dumb faces in the flesh, phone calls just don’t express your ridiculousness enough.” The pair grin, throwing up identical, bored-looking peace signs in response, before both sets of eyes sway to Kyoutani. Iwaizumi follows their gaze and huffs.

 

“Hanamaki, Matsukawa, this is Kyoutani - my apprentice. Kyoutani, these are my two best friends, Hanamaki Takahiro and Matsukawa Issei.”

 

Matsukawa drags an assessing gaze down Kyoutani from head to toe - meanwhile, a grin spreads across Hanamaki’s face, and suddenly Kyoutani feels a little nervous. Iwaizumi’s _best_ friends. He hadn’t even known Iwaizumi _had_ best friends.

 

“Apprentice, eh?” Hanamaki asks, pulling away from Matsukawa to take a step closer, stooping and resting his hands on his hips to better study Kyoutani, who tries not to shift his weight under the odd scrutiny. “Looks like a ruffian. Kinda like y-” his eyes slide over to Iwaizumi for a second and has the distinct look of someone in on a joke, before cutting himself off and changing tack, “- heh. Anyways, nice to finally meet you, Kyoutani. You get that watch trick down yet?”

 

The fucking watch trick. Iwaizumi made it look so easy, distracting and misdirecting a person enough to steal the watch right off their wrist before they even noticed. But even after all this time, Kyoutani just couldn’t ever make the correct moves or unfasten the clasp smooth or quick enough. It’s a real source of frustration for him, and now he’s learning that apparently Iwaizumi not only keeps in touch with his old buddies but also keeps them informed of all his failures. He can’t help the glower he ends up sending Iwaizumi’s way - only realises he’s doing it when the men he’s just met start snickering at him, turns it their way instead.

 

Matsukawa huffs, but then he’s regarding Iwaizumi again, his expression shifting to something a little more serious. “Still, it’s funny Daisho warned you off. He’s the one who invited you here, anything that happens is his doing.”

 

“I for one, am expecting something the likes of a nuclear explosion,” Hanamaki cuts in, face suddenly blank even as his hands mime his prediction. “And not in a safe distance away ‘ooh look at that pretty flash and interesting mushroom cloud formation’ way, but in an ‘oh my god I’m blind and my whole body has been incinerated’ kind of way.”

 

When Kyoutani looks, Iwaizumi is completely sober again, all mirth gone without a trace. “Does he know yet?” he asks, and Kyoutani leans forward ever so slightly in growing curiosity. They aren’t talking about Daisho anymore, so who-?

 

Matsukawa and Hanamaki glance at each other before giving Iwaizumi near-identical shrugs.

 

“Well _we_ weren’t gonna be the ones to tell him,” Hanamaki says after their lightning-quick silent conversation. Both of them look like they feel guilty, though Kyoutani has no idea why.

 

Matsukawa adds, “and he hasn’t been in town the last few days to hear the rumours of you being around, so who knows. I doubt the majority of people would want to spoil the surprise and miss the opportunity to watch the show.” A look of disgust crosses his face as he glances to the strangers that have gone back to milling around and focusing on their own inane conversations. His tone turns even more grave when he returns his gaze to Iwaizumi. “Wanted to tell him, but you know how he loves weddings. And he’s had a nice day - so far, at least.”

 

Kyoutani is so, so curious, but he doesn’t say a word.

 

Iwaizumi grimaces, but nods. “Probably for the best. He might have refused to come if he’d known.” And that wouldn’t have been good for whoever they’re talking about, if even Iwaizumi had felt it impossible to refuse Daisho’s invitation. Kyoutani sees an indecision and a worry he’d never seen in Iwaizumi before when the man clenches his jaw and runs a jittery hand through his hair, mumbling a “fuck” under his breath.

 

“He won’t make a scene - not in front of so many people, anyway. He cares too much about how he looks. Just-- yeah. Probably best to keep this,” he gestures between himself and his two old friends with an unhappy slant to his mouth, “short for now. You’ve already been seen fraternising with the enemy. But I just wanted to-- thanks. For everything.”

 

Hanamaki and Matsukawa nod, taking turns to slap Iwaizumi on the arm in both acknowledgement and goodbye, and then turn to wander off elsewhere, Hanamaki sending Kyoutani a jaunty wave goodbye that he doesn’t bother to return. Iwaizumi looks tense all over again, and Kyoutani doesn’t think he can dissolve it with a simple comment this time. Is too curious to even try.

 

“Who were you talking about?” he asks, unable to stop himself now that they’re alone. He’s not particularly worried about how Iwaizumi will react - the other man has always been pretty open with Kyoutani when he’s had questions.

 

Flint eyes don’t turn to meet his; it’s like Iwaizumi is elsewhere, gaze unfocused as he stares straight ahead, troubled by the weight of whatever he’s been carrying all these years.

 

“I think you already know,” he answers, despite how far away he seems, voice quiet.

 

Kyoutani thinks of polaroids hidden away in a drawer, intimate photographs of a brown-haired boy’s smile. He thinks of a lovingly-maintained 1977 Chevrolet Monte Carlo Iwaizumi rarely drives, how he’s felt like an intruder every time he’s sat on the passenger side of the white bench seat, like it belongs to someone else. He thinks of the expression Iwaizumi makes when he drives the Chevy; when certain songs come on the autoshop radio; when he’s having a quiet moment to himself, yet to realise Kyoutani’s around.

 

And yeah, he knows.

 

It’s only when the background music tapers off that Kyoutani remembers there’s a band at all. He’s glancing around for the cause when a man steps beside the head table - the only long, rectangular table in the room, set so all those seated will face the rest of the room - and rings a bell to call their attention: “If the guests and wedding party would be so kind as to take their seats, the speeches will begin soon.” He bows to the room, and then pointedly to the Bride and Groom, before retreating back to wherever he came from.

 

Kyoutani watches people begin to shuffle around them in confusion, before Iwaizumi jerks his head in one direction and then leads Kyoutani over to a table. “There was a diagram by the door,” he explains, and Kyoutani wonders when the fuck Iwaizumi had even noticed that, let alone had the time to study it to find and remember their places.

 

It’s surprisingly close to the head table considering the obvious contempt Daisho has for Iwaizumi, but Kyoutani can only assume they’re there for a reason. Ahead of him, Iwaizumi is skirting around the edge of the table, studying the place settings, scowl only worsening until he finds their seats, each marked with their own name card. “The table’s full of Daisho’s people, who all hate me almost as much as he does,” he mutters in explanation under his breath as he pulls out his chair.

 

The tables fill up with surprising speed, all of the guests in the room obedient to the instructions, and Kyoutani guesses that’s as much a statement of Daisho’s power as anything else. Speaking of - he glances up and sure enough, Daisho is sitting at the center of the head table, his beautiful bride by his side, embodying the image of a King presiding over his Court. Kyoutani doesn’t think it’s any mistake that their places mean they’re directly in the man’s line of sight if he turns his face just a little to the left.

 

He turns to look at Iwaizumi who is lounging back, one arm bent and pulled back so his forearm is resting on the backrest of his chair. Two fingers of his other hand are outstretched to give a couple of absent-minded taps to the cool (genuine) silver of one of the knives set next to his plate. The man looks totally at ease - utterly unbothered by the other men sat around the table sending him looks, some ignoring the pretty girls they’re with to do so. It’s erring between nonchalant and arrogant as a gesture, and Kyoutani knows enough about Iwaizumi to know it’s calculated - a way to show he isn’t intimidated and also an attempt to irritate their company at the table. It’s working.

 

Kyoutani ducks his head to hide a smirk, smoothing down the material of his pants over his thighs and hoping to hell they won’t crease. The room is full of judging eyes and the last thing he wants is to look like a total jackass.

 

He knows himself well enough to choose to ignore the looks Iwaizumi (and himself) are getting from these assholes, Iwaizumi’s warnings from before they entered the function room echoing in his head. No attitude. No fighting. That’s a tall order for him in such a high-tension, public setting. He doesn’t really… get along with people.

 

Kyoutani flicks his eyes back to the head table, really looking at Daisho’s new wife for the first time to distract himself. She’s pretty - Kyoutani’s type, probably. Long brown hair and thick eyelashes and nice collarbones and nice hands, which he notices when she brings one up to brush the bangs out of her eyes, leaning to the side to say something to Daisho. Kyoutani looks at the man again, feeling a prickle shoot up his spine when he meets the man’s narrow-eyed gaze head on.

 

So no looking at the bride, then. Alright.

 

He skips his gaze over from Daisho along the line of people sitting at the head table - the people to the Groom’s right are clearly from his ‘organization’; old men with graying hair and hard faces and their wives for company. On the Bride’s side sit what must be her parents, and a surly-looking brother probably around Kyoutani’s age. The father of the Bride looks just like the men sitting on the other end of the table and the mother is wearing an ostentatious hat and jewelry more expensive-looking than the bride’s - they probably have a ‘family business’ of their own.

 

There’s a movement in the corner of his eye, and Kyoutani lets his gaze wander in that direction to see two men re-entering the room from one of the sets of french doors he’d noticed earlier, the last stragglers. Everyone else is seated now and Kyoutani wouldn’t have thought much of their presence, if not for the fact he somehow _feels_ a sudden change in Iwaizumi beside him as they cross in front of the head table to reach their own on the other side of the room.

 

It’s as if all the murmuring in the room dies off - and there’s no way that actually happens because that would be crazy but still, something has set Kyoutani’s sixth sense off - and it’s like time stops when he turns to Iwaizumi and sees him frozen, his usually calm gaze fixed where Kyoutani had just been lazily observing. Kyoutani snaps his head back the other way and--

 

He just knows, before he even realizes, exactly what – or _who_ \- he’s looking at. But now he looks at the men properly - well, one of them is still a mystery he isn’t particularly interested in, but there’s absolutely no mistaking the other.

 

It’s the boy from the photograph.

 

Well, he’s a man now, obviously. It’s weird, recognising someone he’s never known or even met, seeing him aged a few years - older, but undeniably the same person.

 

He’s tall, taller than Kyoutani and Iwaizumi most likely, with chocolate hair immaculately styled just the right amount. The kind of good-looking that makes him popular with just about anyone, probably. The kind of guy that Kyoutani doesn’t get along with mostly just on principle alone.

 

He hasn’t even reached the mid-point of the room - that’s how slowly time is progressing, or maybe how quick Kyoutani is processing. The route to his table shows him in profile to Iwaizumi and Kyoutani, flaunting his high cheekbones and the perfectly smooth slope of his nose. His expression is impassive, collected. Something about him is haughty, like he _knows_ he’s too good for the people around him.

 

It’s strange. In the polaroids he always seemed to be radiating some brand of happiness - he was overjoyed and excited in the photo where Iwaizumi had just bought the Monte Carlo; gleeful and laughing at something in the one counting money; mischievous in the one where he’s wearing the fur coat; content and safe as he slumbered in the Chevy’s back seat. The photos hadn’t actually felt like snapshots taken in this lifetime when Kyoutani had first seen them and if anything, occasionally remembering them and contemplating them in the years since had mythified them all the more. For some reason, the boy – _man_ – hadn’t felt real. Even now, it’s like Kyoutani’s watching a movie as the man seems to sense their gaze, his chocolate eyes sliding their way. First to Iwaizumi, like his vision is drawn to him by an unforeseen force, then flicking to look at Kyoutani for a cold sliver of a second.

 

Kyoutani isn’t sure what he expects to happen.

 

But it’s not for the guy to take a step and freeze for just a fraction of a second, then carry on walking to his own table with a poise as if nothing at all has happened.

 

Time returns to its normal speed and the noise returns to the room as soon as he continues to move. Kyoutani notices Hanamaki’s blond/pink hair besides where the man takes his seat, and Matsukawa is probably there too, but he’s too distracted by Iwaizumi crushing his napkin in his fist to check. His immediate response is to ask if his mentor is okay, but evidently the little moment wasn’t missed by anybody at their own table, because all eyes are on Iwaizumi. Making sure Iwaizumi’s alright would make the man look weak so Kyoutani doesn’t, instead moving to look back at Daisho. He’s expecting a smug grin or something just as asinine, so he’s taken by surprise when he sees the man resting his jaw on his fist, regarding Iwaizumi with a serious, intense expression.

 

Then the father of the bride stands, tapping the blunt edge of his knife to his crystal glass, looking far too eager to have the room’s attention now that everyone has taken their seat. The tension breaks, and Kyoutani is suddenly reminded of where he is - in a room surrounded by a sea of people. A hostile environment.

 

The whole party is predictably unbearable.

 

The speeches have no honest humour or any poignant moments, every word from each person that speaks is polished, carefully crafted to kiss Daisho’s ass and to create the thin lie that Daisho is a normal, nice guy. He seems to eat it up anyway, relaxed and reclined in his chair like royalty - the only candid moment is when someone (respectfully) praises the blushing bride and Daisho turns to her and smiles, lifting her hand to his lips to kiss it. On the whole it feels more like a choreographed business display than a wedding, even if Mika smiles and blushes and looks blissfully happy when they take to the floor for the first dance. Kyoutani thinks they do love each other, if the occasional look shared between them says anything, but any real personal moments must take place behind closed doors. Daisho doesn’t really the seem the type to show any weakness in front of other people - and Kyoutani knows that for men like him, any kind of positive emotion or affection is exactly that.

 

Food is served and then the lights are dimmed, people getting up and moving around to dance or blatantly network, and all the while Kyoutani and Iwaizumi stay in their seats. Somewhere along the line Iwaizumi has undone his first couple of shirt buttons and loosened his tie, but Kyoutani doesn’t dare do the same in case they need to get done up again - he’d rather die than have Iwaizumi re-tie or tighten his tie in front of all these people.

 

They don’t talk to each other. Neither do they acknowledge the obvious: that the whole time, both of their attention is on the brunette Iwaizumi knows. Or used to know.

 

He sits poised at his table; laughs and claps at all the right times during the speeches; seems to engage in chatter at the table during the meal. He talks to a few people after, when the band starts up again, including the newlywed couple, being one of the few to risk kissing the cheek of the bride and even putting a hand on Daisho’s shoulder. A personal friend, then. Kyoutani stares at them in interest.

 

Clearly Iwaizumi doesn’t think they’re allowed to leave, so they sit there for a torturously long time until things begin to wind down. The crowd in the room starts to thin out and Kyoutani looks for the guy from earlier, or Matsukawa and Hanamaki even, but can’t find any of them. Iwaizumi gets tenser as the minutes tick on, and Kyoutani isn’t sure if it’s from what happened earlier, or because he’s waiting for some kind of cue for when to leave. Just as it begins to really affect Kyoutani, leaving him restless and agitated, they get their answer. Some rough-looking guy with bags under his eyes approaches them and strangely enough, Iwaizumi’s frame seems to finally even his expression looks bored as fuck.

 

“Numai, great to see you,” he says in a tone that seems to say that it is actually _not_ great to see him.

 

The guy - Numai, apparently - looks distinctly unimpressed and crosses his arms over his chest. “Yeah, yeah,” he drawls, not even dignifying either of them with eye contact. “Boss wants you in conference room B downstairs.”

 

Iwaizumi’s mouth is a grim line, his eyebrows furrowed as he processes. He doesn’t ask why, and Numai doesn’t provide him with any more information - his duty now apparently done, he seems all too happy to turn on his heel and go elsewhere, as if he wants nothing less than to be near them. Kyoutani’s actually pretty surprised that there are so many people that seem to actively _dislike_ Iwaizumi. Distantly, he wonders if it’s the reason he left, or the result of him leaving.

 

He takes his cue to stand when Iwaizumi does so, and follows him without a word as he leaves the room.

 

Iwaizumi’s frown only deepens when they clear the threshold on the ballroom, his shoulders back to a tense line as he descends the marble staircase ahead of Kyoutani, jacket swept back so he can slide his hands into the pockets of his slacks. Kyoutani catches up to him when they reach the lobby, not really surprised when Iwaizumi immediately heads down a corridor, clearly knowing exactly where he’s going.

 

“Is this where the point of the night where we end up dead in a ditch?” he mutters to the older man as they pass the occasional door.

 

“No,” Iwaizumi answers, stopping in front of a cream door with a golden plaque with a simple ‘B’ on the wall beside it. “From what I hear Daisho much prefers water dumps. The fountain of a rival hotel is much more likely.”

 

Wow, that’s so reassuring.

 

Iwaizumi grins and shrugs at Kyoutani, like he knows exactly what he’s thinking, and then opens the door with absolutely no ceremony.

 

“--a couple more people,” they hear as soon as it opens. That’s Daisho’s voice - and when the hell had _he_ left the party upstairs? “Oh, and here they are. The stars of the show.”

 

Kyoutani hadn’t thought that Daisho could sound any more _smug_ , but here he is, proving himself even more of a fucking scumbag that Kyoutani had first thought.

 

The room is a much smaller version of the cavernous ballroom upstairs, and a lot less grandiose. There’s no shiny floor, or gold embellishments, or mood lighting. Just a decently-sized room, painted in cream with a generic-looking carpet. It’s clearly designed to host much smaller functions, perhaps a multi-table meeting: there are a few of them pushed against the walls sans tablecloths, with most of the chairs in the room stacked up out of the way too.

 

Daisho himself is leaning back against a table set against the wall opposite the door, and though he’s shucked his jacket somewhere, he still looks put together with his crisp with tuxedo shirt tucked into his pants and his bowtie perfectly tied at his throat. His legs are outstretched, one crossed over the other at the ankle and his hands are in his pockets, making him look totally at ease. He smirks at them from across the room, as if there’s nothing more entertaining than this moment right now. The men stationed either side of him - more as a statement than protection, Kyoutani assumes - simply stare in silence.

 

It’s then that Kyoutani really registers the fact that there are others in the room, sat in chairs that must have been taken from the stacks, closer to Daisho than the door. Some kind of impromptu meeting then. Heads turn to look as the door shuts behind them with a click and then there’s silence.

 

Hanamaki and Matsukawa sport shared looks of surprise, faces blank except for widened eyes. The last person in their three-chair cluster finally turns and - well.

 

There’s no way it was ever going to be anyone else, was there?

 

Kyoutani feels the curiosity that’s been itching beneath his skin flare up, insistent now.

 

Sharp brown eyes bore into Iwaizumi, flicker to Kyoutani for a mere few seconds and yet still manage to somehow broadcast absolute _distaste_ before his head swings back around to regard Daisho in a much more dynamic display than the one earlier.

 

Daisho ignores it all and waves a magnanimous hand at two empty chairs, a clear order for Iwaizumi and Kyoutani to sit. They do. Daisho surveys them with satisfaction, then lifts his chin before anyone can decide to speak and says with gravitas: “now that everyone invited is present--” Matsukawa snorts, kicking his legs out, apparently already at ease and not all bothered by the fact he’s interrupting _Daisho Suguru._ “More forced than invited, I’d say.”

 

Daisho’s eye twitches in clear annoyance, but otherwise he doesn’t acknowledge the brazen interruption.

 

“As you all know, it’s my wedding day,” Kyoutani goes to snort - because _no shit,_ there was no way anyone was gonna miss that with all the spectacle - but a sharp glare from Iwaizumi stops him in his tracks. Daisho continues. “And believe me, I wouldn’t be spending the start of my wedding night with a bunch of guys unless it was of absolute importance.”

 

Kyoutani, who finally catches up to the fact they’re _not_ about to be murdered, straightens up a little.

 

“I need something doing,” Daisho says imperiously, examining each of the five men in front of him in turn, “and you’re going to do it for me.” There’s no _can you_ or _please_ , just a clear, precise order. Kyoutani feels his brows furrow of their own volition. Looking around, it’s clear the other men in the room were expecting something like this, even if it’s a surprise to Kyoutani. Now it’s out in the open the atmosphere changes. Iwaizumi tenses up from head to toe. Kyoutani’s eyes flicker his way in alarm, but Iwaizumi’s expression is stony and fixed entirely on Daisho.

 

“Call it a wedding present, hm?” Daisho says, saccharine, just to stick the knife in further - his eyes are held fast on Iwaizumi’s. “I need you to bring me back something that definitely shouldn’t be in anyone’s possession but mine.”

 

The fucker’s enjoying this.

 

Iwaizumi’s hand clenches into a fist on his thigh.

 

Kyoutani feels himself wind up tighter and tighter, unable to fight the response to the change in Iwaizumi. It sets him on edge. He hasn’t felt this in a long, long time; old instincts kicking back into gear. Just as the atmosphere balloons to the point he’s going to have to say or do _something_ , someone breaks the tension for him.

 

“Are you serious?” beseeches a voice Kyoutani has never heard before.

 

His gaze snaps to the side and the tall brunette is standing now, stormy brown gaze focused on Daisho, who flicks his eyes to regard him coolly in return.

 

“I’m _always_ serious,” Daisho responds, an undercurrent of threat in his smooth tone.

 

It doesn’t much to deter his challenger, who heaves a breath. “A job? That’s what all this has been about?” Oh, he’s not happy. Angry but not enraged or at risk of losing it. No-- if anything, it’s the kind of anger that runs through your veins and ensures complete and utter control. Hard-edged steel. Kyoutani has seen it in a lot of men, and it only serves to make him tense up further, because he knows what this particular brand of emotion can do. The guy is _incensed,_ body coiled with tension and ready to lash out with precision. “Daisho--”

 

Said man doesn’t deign to give an answer, just keeps his gaze steady, not reacting. It doesn’t help. The ghost-turned-man lashes out with an arm, pointing directly at Iwaizumi without even turning to look at him.

 

“He is _not_ one of us,” he hisses with pure disdain, as if Daisho might not be aware of the fact. Kyoutani doesn’t know who he is, not _anymore_ anyway, but he’s surprised Daisho hasn’t made him pay for his attitude already. “And neither is the little street brat he brought with him.”

 

And Iwaizumi just sits there and takes it. Kyoutani is still taking his cues from the man (always takes his cues from him these days, if he’s honest) so even though his first reaction is to lash out at the insult, he doesn’t. That’s not to say he doesn’t react at all - he can’t help himself turning an imploring gaze Iwaizumi’s way that says _do something_ _or_ _let me_.

 

“Don’t mind him, Kyoutani,” Iwaizumi says at his look, his tone calm and his voice clear. Everyone’s heads swing back around to stare at him. Iwaizumi is suddenly back to his facade from upstairs, looking completely unruffled as he sits in his chair, having at some point slunk back down almost to a slouch. “He tends to forget where he came from.”

 

The glare he gets in return for his comment is both fire and ice - burning hatred and freezing cold disdain. Kyoutani watches, engrossed, as the dual emotions sweep over the man’s whole presence, seeming to adjust his frame into a poise not unlike the one from earlier when he’d spotted them at the party, and yet something about it is altogether more threatening. A loud, ugly burst of a laugh leaves his lips, head tilted back in gross exaggeration.

 

“Says the man who turned his back on everything,” is the scathing reply.

 

Iwaizumi’s jaw ticks.

 

Iwaizumi’s _whoever_ turns to face the two of them then, takes a couple of steps so he’s almost level with Matsukawa - who sits to attention like he thinks he might have to intervene - and then rests his hands on his hips.

 

“You’re nothing to anyone in this room, Hajime.” The way he says Iwaizumi’s given name is the strangest thing. The first syllable is held just a fraction of a second too long, making it sound slightly mocking, but Kyoutani doesn’t think it’s intentional. It’s a name this man this man has spoken many times before, but perhaps never in the cold, distasteful tone he’s attempting to use just now. “Besides maybe the kid you brought along with you.”

 

His face is cold, cold, cold; not a glimmer of that rage there anymore. Kyoutani glances over to Daisho, but the man is still in the same relaxed position as before, observing with a neutral expression, happy to let this proceed how it may, like this was part of his plan all along. Then he can’t help but let his gaze get pulled back in to the stranger that Kyoutani thought he’d never ever meet: he’s fascinated - and yeah, maybe a little uneasy. It’s just pure disdain that the man broadcasts now, as his fine features twist into a sneer.

 

“You’ve brought a ghost back to this town,” the brunette says, casting a cursory glance back to Daisho to show whom he’s talking to. Then sharp eyes cut back to Iwaizumi, almost like he’s pinning him to the chair with only his gaze. “Because you’re sure as Hell dead to all of us.”

 

Iwaizumi twitches, and Kyoutani looks to see that Iwaizumi’s gaze is meeting the other’s head on. Something tells Kyoutani he’s not as controlled as he was before at the harsh words.

 

Apparently the other guy knows that too, because he goes in for the kill.

 

“A wasted invitation. You thought he could do a job for you, Daisho? The guy who ran off to play at being a model citizen?” Eyes flashing in the bright lighting of the room. “Bet you can’t do _shit_ anymore.”

 

Iwaizumi is a man of skill. He has many. And if there’s one thing Kyoutani knows gets Iwaizumi fired up, it’s someone going for his pride, calling his abilities into question. Seems like no one knows that better than the boy that was there as he learned them; honed them. And he knows he’s got him, because a savage grin comes to his face the second before Iwaizumi slowly stands up from his chair, sliding his hands into his pant pockets as he takes a few steps forward.

 

“What? You don’t like that? _You’re_ the one that threw it all away. You’re a _coward_.”

 

There’s no way that Iwaizumi is a coward. Kyoutani doesn’t know exactly what went down, but he’s got a lot more pieces to the puzzle than he had before that fucking envelope had ever found its way into his hands just a few short days ago by now. He’s not sure it’s worth the discovery for how much it’s threatening their peaceful existence.

 

Kyoutani can tell Iwaizumi isn’t looking for a fight, so he’s not surprised when the man stops a few paces from the man gunning for him and instead turns to Daisho.

 

“I came here on your _request_ Daisho,” he says calmly, and Daisho tilts his head to the side, like he can’t possibly fathom what Iwaizumi might want to say to him, especially because it’s starting to sound like a refusal. And it _is_. “A show of good faith -” Kyoutani thinks back to that morning in the autoshop’s office, and Iwaizumi saying that Daisho’s _not the kind of man you ever refuse if you know what’s good for you_ and wants to roll his eyes “-I didn’t come here for a _job,_ or to get dragged back into this. You know what my answer is.” And then it hits him. Kyoutani all of a sudden realises that holy shit, he recognises this blank expression Iwaizumi’s sporting. It’s his poker face. Iwaizumi’s bluffing. He’s trying to get them out of here now; trying to get them out of here unscathed.

 

Flint eyes flicker back over to the man just a couple of paces away from him by now.

 

“The best thing I ever did was leave this fucking town,” he says, some savagery in his tone. “The last thing I ever wanted was to come back.”

 

Now, Iwaizumi is a fantastic poker player. He’s a good bluffer. He’s got to be, to fool the man who had known him best for such a long time. Kyoutani watches as the handsome, scornful face of the man from the photographs crumples in all the ugly emotions Kyoutani knows all too well: rage, disappointment, betrayal.

 

But that man isn’t the one who knows Iwaizumi best anymore. Kyoutani stays sitting in his chair, probably the only one who noticed Iwaizumi’s tell.

 

Poker 101: there’s no such thing as a perfect liar. If someone’s faking, there’s _always_ a way to tell. It took Kyoutani a _long_ time to notice Iwaizumi’s, but he knows it now. And Iwaizumi just lied through his fucking teeth.

 

Not that it matters, because the lie has done its job in pushing the other’s buttons, a petty retaliation, and the golden watch on the angry brunette wrist glints in the light as he throws a punch that Iwaizumi must expect but doesn’t dodge. The fist connects with a sickening crack, turning Iwaizumi’s face and torso with the force of it. Kyoutani is standing before he knows it, but a stern glance from Iwaizumi pins him to the spot, leaving him to watch.

 

Daisho hasn’t reacted - or at least doesn’t until Iwaizumi spits blood at the carpet near his shiny shoes. Not that anyone really seems to care about Daisho’s disgust.

 

Hanamaki’s hovering, face concerned and placating hands held up. Matsukawa looks a second away from stepping in.

 

“Oikawa,” the tall man says, his tone heavy with the appeal laced into the words. Said man turns to glance back at Matsukawa, and for a second he seems to settle somewhat, but then he’s looking back at Iwaizumi and it’s like that tiny moment never even happened.

 

 _Oikawa._ Finally a name to the face -

 

“Who the Hell do you think you are?” Oikawa snaps at Iwaizumi, who’s still frozen. He grabs at the lapel of Iwaizumi’s brand-new suit, yanking him forward. Kyoutani surges forward a step, but remembers Iwaizumi’s silent reproach from moments earlier and stops himself. Still, his shoulders heave with the effort of getting breath to his lungs past the panic of a threat to the one person in his life who’s ever been kind to him. A snarl passes his lips.

 

Iwaizumi glances over to look at him once more, probably to check he’s alright. Kyoutani can’t see anything but the blood at the man’s mouth.

 

Oikawa is incensed, and he swings to land another hit, but before it can make contact Iwaizumi moves, body twisting and jacket flapping as he grabs at Oikawa’s outstretched arm to stop him, and holy _shit_ , he’s not just intercepting a punch and restraining the man’s arm – even if he’s moving lightning-fast, faster than he’s ever seen Iwaizumi move, Kyoutani _knows those movements._

 

It all happens over a period of a few seconds, and then Iwaizumi in stepping back with a golden watch dangling from the fingers of his raised hands.

 

There’s a moment of quiet, just the soft sounds of the watch as it swings through the air.

 

Oikawa has a face like murder, and savagely brushes off the hand Hanamaki rests on his shoulder.

 

“Give that back,” he says, voice too steady to be anything but dangerous, enunciating each word with too much forced control. Both Matsukawa and Hanamaki wrap an arm around him, tugging him back before he can lash out again, which he looks about one second away from doing.

 

And then Daisho laughs.

 

He laughs like he’s just watched the comedy of the fucking century, adding a couple of lazy claps for emphasis. It kills the tension with just how jarring it is in the situation. “Looks like he can still lift just fine, Oikawa,” he comments, returning Oikawa’s savage glare with a calm look of his own.

 

“Iwaizumi,” he says then, the lilt to his tone almost like he’s about to attempt to reason with a child. Iwaizumi’s expression is grim even as he rolls his eyes, and then he tosses the watch back to Oikawa, who catches it with one hand with an ease that looks to come naturally. His face screams contempt.

 

Everyone waits until another couple of moments, and then: “unlike your invitation today, Iwaizumi, this is not a request.” Daisho stands as he speaks, then takes a few casual steps forward so that he’s between the two men who’d just caused such a spectacular scene. The hair on the back of Kyoutani’s neck stands on end at the tone of his voice and the cold glint in his eyes. He surveys each of them in turn, and then continues to walk, stopping when he’s right in front of Kyoutani. “Not for any of you.”

 

Kyoutani eyes him warily, but Daisho merely glances back at Iwaizumi to check the message has been received. By the look on Iwaizumi-san’s face it has been, loud and clear. The expression of Daisho’s face appears satisfied, and then he’s tipping his head towards the door. When he starts towards it, the two men that had been flanking him earlier move to do the same now, dutifully following him.

 

The man’s pale hand is on the polished brass doorknob when he pauses. “This is of the utmost importance to me, and you _will_ get me what I want. You know I’ll be more than fair with my compensation for your hard work. We’ll discuss the details the day after tomorrow.”

 

The door is opened, Daisho stepping across the threshold, and Kyoutani thinks this shitty day is _finally_ over, when--

 

“Oh, and Iwaizumi? Check out of that fucking shithole and into _my_ hotel or I’ll arrange for someone to make you.”

 

And then he’s gone.

 

“Soooo,” Hanamaki drags out after a loaded snatch of moments, crossing his arms behind his head and surveying those of them left out of the room. “Now seems as good a time as any for some family counselli--”

 

“Over my dead body,” Oikawa sneers, not even affording Iwaizumi or Kyoutani a glance as he storms out of the room, bloodied knuckles stretched tight as he clenches the golden watch in his grip. The door slams behind him.

 

Then silence.

 

“Well, that was awful,” Hanamaki announces.

 

Iwaizumi winces as he presses two fingers to the tender flesh at the corner of his mouth, pulling the digits back to stare at the blood smeared on their tips.

 

“He shouldn’t be alone,” is all he says, voice devoid of anything as he nods towards the closed door. Hanamaki looks like he wants to say something, but Matsukawa just nods and pulls the other along with him as he leaves the room to follow after Oikawa.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> EDIT: the "watch trick" is heavily inspired by Apollo Robbins, who might be the most 'famous' pickpocket in media: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qPXc1Z3BDOU obviously what iwaizumi does to oikawa is a lot quicker with a lot less showmanship, but this _is_ fiction ;) 
> 
> and that's pretty much the prologue, lmao! did i take too long to get to this point? almost definitely. do i care? not particularly!  
> this is 80-90% written and ~~hopefully~~ the rest will be added at short, regular intervals.  
>  still, you can yell @ me to update this (or talk about it or anything else) in the comments or via [tumblr](http://verbrennung.tumblr.com)!!


	2. a man whose heart is hollow

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey guys!! i just want to say THANK YOU SO MUCH for the reception the first chapter received!! it's so motivating to read your comments and see your kudos! i'm glad you're liking this little (big) project of mine! 
> 
> i'm sorry - i would have posted this sooner but my family suffered a big loss recently and i (obviously) had other things on my mind.
> 
> that being said, i hope you enjoy the latest installment! we have a new POV to start if off with, from my favourite boy ;)
> 
> ALSO i think we might have to stretch it to 4 chapters :') but at least there's a [SPOTIFY PLAYLIST](https://open.spotify.com/user/gm0cs467p1ntg1obc5owz8nfd/playlist/4z6NEM4nqOCJfb1X1rtZtc) now! so if you're curious about songs that i write to/that fit the mood of the fic (for different characters) enjoy!!

 

 

Daisho Suguru might be a complicated man with a complicated job, but he likes the simple things, too. The breakfast terrace of his hotel, for example.

 

The hotel had always been his pet project, even before he took the helm of the family business. It’s been crafted to his exact specifications, and it’s home more than the mansion on the hills his father ran things from ever was or will be. His old man’s in the dirt now, so this place is now the base of his operations, and he likes to start his day out on this terrace enjoying the ambience.

 

The whole thing is supposed to evoke Italy or Spain, inspiration taken from memories of childhood vacations spent there with his mother and other relatives. He’d loved the narrow, cobbled streets; the interesting buildings and the different textures of all the sun-baked surfaces in the villages they used to stay in. The terrace here wraps around a corner of the building in an L-shape to try and imitate that kind of setting - where turning a corner in a maze of a village could just as easily reveal the outside seating for a hidden restaurant as a set of uneven stairs leading somewhere else, or even just a complete dead end.

 

The uneven stones that cover the outer facade of the hotel and thus line the terrace on one side remind him of a house they rented one summer, the walls of it rough and sandy to the touch, beautiful in its utter lack of uniformity.

 

On the other side of the terrace, separating it from the rest of the resort beyond, is a waist-high wrought-iron fence. Dotted along its length at even intervals are poles that stretch up to support high arches above, green vines and magenta _Bougainvilleas_ wrapping around the dark metal and trailing down some from the frame.

 

There’s no roof, just well-spaced lattice work overhead that lets the sunlight stream down onto the tables and completes the iron frame surrounding the terrace. There are flower pots secured up there too, yet more green spilling from their containers which boast vibrant blooms of well-cared for flowers: violet _Lunaria O Moneta,_ orange _Dahlia Semplice Gazania_ , red and pink _Geranium a Grandi Fiori_ , among others. There are even flower boxes affixed to the outside of the railing, housing beautifully-white _Margherita Gigante -_ some of those had been picked and arranged into yesterday’s bridal bouquet.

 

Sitting here really is like being back in Europe one of those summers, especially with all the small tables arranged in the relatively narrow space, full of couples and groups chattering over food. It’s most beautiful in the mornings, with the bright, warm sun filtering through the gaps in the leaves and flora, covering the white tablecloths in dappled light. Sometimes, at the right time of year, the flowers attract butterflies and they flutter peacefully from bloom to bloom.

 

So yes, it’s a simple but nonetheless beautiful place - one of his favourites in the world, if not top of the list - but even so, he’d still rather be in bed with his new wife, gazing down at her wrapped in the white sheets, sleeping soft and safe right next to him. When he'd left her this morning, there was still a giant daisy still tucked in her long, dark locks that he'd placed there the night before.

 

Alas the business never stops, so nor can he.

 

He’d still managed to stretch leaving his room late enough that the breakfast rush is over now - it’s mid-morning, so more brunch than anything. Daisho settles himself at his table - it’s forever reserved in case he should want it - dressed casually in his light blue dress shirt, first couple of buttons undone at his neck and sleeves neatly folded to the top of his forearms, tucked into pressed grey slacks.

 

He’s almost finished with his breakfast, droplets of water sliding down the outside of the glass bottle of ice-cold water beside his plate as he basks in the heat of the sun. He doesn’t bother to look up when someone pulls back the chair opposite him and takes a seat without permission: not many people are allowed to get that close without someone else intervening.

 

“Surprised you didn’t knock on the door of my _honeymoon_ suite first thing this morning,” he comments idly, emphasizing the fact he's just gotten married and doesn't want to be bothered as his silver knife slices through perfectly-cooked eggs and the toast beneath. There’s no reply, and Daisho takes the time to bring a small forkful of food to his mouth and swallow before he finally raises his eyes.

 

Oikawa stares back with open hostility, hands wrapped around the arms of his chair like he’s holding himself back from launching out of it. He’s dressed in a new suit, immaculate as always, but Daisho can see the evidence of the mini-bender he must have gone on last night in the pallor of his skin and the bags under his eyes. He never has been much good at coping with things.

 

“You look like shit, Tooru.” And then he’s waving over someone to take the man’s breakfast order, which Oikawa requests with a low murmur and without need of a menu. His brunch-mate has never much liked being insulted on his appearance, but he relaxes now that Daisho has used the blunt observation to show he’s not the least bit interested in having the fight Oikawa seemed ready for when he first showed up.

 

When the waiter has gone, Oikawa tilts his head, squinting at Daisho in a more familiar look of distaste now the hostile atmosphere has abated somewhat. “And you look far too smug, as usual.”

 

Daisho grins. “Got laid last night,” he discloses in a stage whisper, and Oikawa rolls his eyes, murmuring an irritated ‘no shit’ under his breath.

 

Daisho huffs, because he _is_ in a good mood. The fresh coffee press he’d ordered before Oikawa’s appearance arrives, and Daisho nods in muted approval of the second cup brought along with it - the man opposite him probably needs the caffeine more than he does. Putting down his cutlery, he places a hand on the plunger and presses down slowly; when that’s done, he pours some coffee into each cup. He takes his black, and Oikawa will take it however Daisho decides he wants him to, so he swings the handle of one towards his table company without asking for anything additional from the waiter hovering close by. That done, he carefully pulls the remaining cup closer to himself by the saucer it’s nestled on.

 

“Say what you came here to say, Tooru. I’ve got important things to do today.”

 

Frowning, Oikawa leans back to cross one leg over the other, curling one long finger through the looped handle of his own mug and then adjusting his grip to take a sip, likely just for something to do. Daisho sighs at his hesitation but otherwise deigns to wait for the other to speak.

 

“How could you?” is what Oikawa decides on eventually, and Daisho raises a brow.

 

Wrong choice.

 

“ _My_ wedding,” he says, evenly, blank stare a challenge. “I can invite whoever the fuck I want to invite. Try again.”

 

Oikawa’s upper lip curls in frustration but he doesn’t lash out. He’s more of a loose cannon these days, has been ever since he lost the one person who could ever really rein him in, but even he knows better than to show aggression to Daisho. They’re acquaintances - would perhaps even be friends, if Daisho was capable of such a thing - but Daisho has proved before that he won’t take disrespect from anyone. Not acquaintances, not friends, not even family. Daisho Suguru does what he wants and doesn’t owe anyone an explanation; everyone knows this.

 

He raises his cup and takes a sip of the strong dark roast, holding it suspended in front of his face after he swallows, waiting.

 

“This job -” Oikawa starts, leaning forward and meeting Daisho’s gaze with surety. Confidence, but none of that indignancy from before - better, Daisho thinks. “We don’t _need_ him. The three of us are more than capable of doing it alone.” And with that, Daisho’s back to being disappointed with him. Oikawa really should know better by now.

 

“It’s _my_ job,” Daisho counters with just the barest hint of impatience, “and I’ll damn well decide who is _capable_ of what.” Oikawa tenses - not with fear because Oikawa isn’t really scared of him, but with yet more frustration. Daisho doesn’t mind that Oikawa isn’t afraid of him. There’s no need for him to be - not while they have a mutually-beneficial relationship, anyway.

 

The man opposite him meets his challenge head on, not moving back or conceding any ground. That pride of his doesn’t allow him to back down from anything. Brown eyes flash and oh, Daisho does so love that look on him.

 

“ _He_ is the one that left the three of _us,_ ” Oikawa appeals in a hiss, pain starting to show through the cracks in his handsome countenance. Daisho observes in silence. Oikawa’s hand crushes a neatly-folded napkin in its tight grip as his teeth grit together. “Why are you doing this to me? You’re my friend and I love you, but it’s not like you to try and get involved in other people’s personal business. You only do things that benefit yourself.”

 

Daisho’s eyes glance to the space around them, pleased when he sees the immediate area around their table is devoid of curious ears. Still, there’s never any guarantee of complete privacy  - Daisho knows there’s people waiting for the slightest opportunity to topple everything he’s built.

 

“Love,” he repeats flatly. The tone he uses is all the rebuttal he needs to slap that notion down; something in Oikawa’s big brown eyes flickers. Frankly, he’s always thought Oikawa is too free, too intense with his emotions. He’s been burned because of it too; still hasn’t really learned. Daisho thinks it’s foolish. Especially to broadcast it in public, where anyone could be listening. “And I am not your friend. When you do a job for me, I am your _boss_.”

 

His tone is firm, leaving no room for arguments. Men like Daisho don’t have the luxury of playing favorites with the people he does business with; not in this dirty world. Friendship, trust, loyalty - these are all things that can lead to your downfall.

 

Oikawa sits back and rolls his eyes like he doesn’t believe him.

 

“And you’re right,” Daisho continues, irritated by the other man’s conduct by now. “I _am_ always making sure things go my way, because that’s what being a businessman is all about.”

 

His eyes narrow and meet Oikawa’s gaze - Daisho will hold it until he has made his point very clear. His father had always said that he has serpentine eyes; that even if he wasn’t the most physically imposing person, there was _something_ about him that could strike unease into a man. And by now he’s perfected the art.

 

“The result of this little task of yours is very important to me. Important enough that I would sacrifice time on my _wedding day_ to set the wheels in motion. Failure isn’t an option, so I need the best.” He places his coffee cup down without breaking his gaze, and makes sure to enunciate his words very clearly: “And yes, Tooru, you’re one of the best. Maybe you could pull it off alone with your little helpers. But guess who else is also one of the best? Iwaizumi,” he declares, before adding in a resigned sneer, “- as much as it nearly _physically pains me_ to admit it.” He knocks on the table twice. “The way I see it, having both of you on the job is doubling my odds. Or something like it anyway; I’ve never been much of a gambler.” He grins. He’s one of few Kings in a city of gamblers, but he’s not a liar. Daisho makes his own odds, after all, he doesn’t play anyone else’s. “Whether you like it or not, together you’re unstoppable, and that’s what I need.” It’s just smart business.

 

That makes Tooru’s expression twist into something sour, and he goes to retort but ultimately thinks better of it. Probably because somewhere in there he knows it’s true.

 

Daisho takes the napkin laid over his lap and drops it onto the table beside his plate.  “Make no mistake about it Tooru, we might have a better relationship than I have with Iwaizumi, but I’m not 'asking' _you_ , either.” He leans forward in his chair and lowers his voice, eyes sharp. “Don’t forget that you _owe_ me,” he hisses, the words carrying all the weight of the world in them.

 

Oikawa’s eyes widen a fraction and Daisho doesn’t like to pull this card - it’s the first time he’s used it since Oikawa had looked to him for help, frayed and frantic and with no one else to turn to - but he’s not above it. It’s always been there, hanging over them, and Daisho thinks that beyond any sense of duty Oikawa might have to him because of their ‘friendship’, it’s that particular piece of their history that has Oikawa agreeing to do all the little jobs Daisho asks of him, despite the fact he's just a conman who shouldn't have any real alignment to anyone.

 

The fact remains that no matter how many people Oikawa scams for him on the side of his own jobs; how many people he steals from or blackmails or destroys the reputation of for Daisho’s gain, they both know it won’t compare. That _favor_ will always be there, blood-red and impossible to erase in Oikawa’s ledger, and neither of them will ever, ever forget it.

 

Reasons like this are why Daisho Suguru doesn’t have _friends._ He just has people that are tied to him, whether that’s for better or worse.

 

Daisho stands, smoothing down the front of his shirt. He turns his attention to his sleeves, tutting at the faint lines in the fabric as he rolls then back down one after the other, covering milky pale forearms now that he’s done eating.

 

“You’ll do the job, Tooru. All five of you,” he says in a tone that shows he expects no contradiction as he pulls his cufflinks from his pocket and puts them on. It carries another message, too: get over it.

 

Oikawa is still sitting stock-still, and Daisho doesn’t want to see the stricken look on his face from bringing all that nastiness between them to the forefront, so he doesn’t look. By tomorrow, when the time comes for them to meet up for the job briefing, Oikawa will have composed himself. Daisho will look him in the eye then.

 

“And then once it’s done, maybe you can think once more about which world you want to live in.”

 

The last time Oikawa had been asked to choose, he’d made the wrong choice. Even if the man’s own pride won’t allow him to acknowledge that fact, everyone around him knows it. Daisho has never tried to hide the fact he’s one of those people, even if he’s the reason for that choice. Oikawa’s lifestyle had ultimately led him down a path that ended with him with a debt to a man like Daisho. That kind of debt can’t be so easily paid off.

 

Oikawa grips the edge of the table and bows his head; lets out a quiet, strangled breath.

 

Maybe if Daisho Suguru wasn’t a complicated man with a complicated job, he would apologize for reaching into Oikawa Tooru’s chest and ripping his heart out all over again.

 

But he is that man, and so he won’t. It’s just more blood on his hands, and as he leaves the terrace it drips from his fingers and adds to the trail that follows him wherever he goes.

 

♠ ♡ ♣ ♢ ♠ ♡ ♣ ♢ ♠ ♡ ♣ ♢ ♠ ♡ ♣ ♢

 

By the time Kyoutani finds himself relaxing, the sun has started to sink towards the horizon and Hanamaki is past half-way through his quadruple stack burger. They’re in yet another shitty diner, one that’s trying to imitate good old 1950’s Americana with its squeaky vinyl booths and tin signs and chrome accents.

 

The other three have been reminiscing about the old days, as if the events of the day before have erased the no-man’s land between the three old friends separated by circumstances Kyoutani still isn’t totally sure about. And though Matsukawa and Hanamaki aren’t necessarily the kind of people Kyoutani prefers to be around, Iwaizumi is more open than usual around them, and Kyoutani likes hearing about the shit he used to get up to even if he’s a total outsider in it.

 

“-so this guy is literally trapped in the corner of the room, halfway through a con that just isn’t gonna work out,” Hanamaki regales, waving his hand towards Iwaizumi as he chews at the food still in his mouth. “And we’re 95% sure this guy is like some kind of _sheikh_ and Iwa could possibly disappear forever if he’s made-” he stops to chortle, but then starts to choke a little and has to take a swig of his cherry soda to wash the mouthful down, slapping at Matsukawa’s arm, presumably to get him to finish.

 

Matsukawa has been fucking around on his phone, mouth in a small, amused smirk at the story, but now he looks up and allows it to grow wider as he turns to Kyoutani. “So Iwaizumi glances between this dude and the beautiful chick the dude has brought along as his mistress for his ‘business trip’, and even half the room away, we can see the gears turning in his head. Then he has the fucking gall to shrug over at Oikawa in the second before he grabs the girl around the waist and kisses her, and--”

 

“Oh my _God,_ Oikawa’s fucking face,” Hanamaki interrupts now he’s able to speak again, desperate to get back into the one-sided conversation. “He was so pissed, but he couldn’t do shit to Hajime, else he’d break his cover.” He turns to smirk at Matsukawa, who smirks back, before they turn their twin gazes over to Kyoutani, who’s trying not to look too interested in what happens next. They read him like a book, though.

 

“So Oikawa picks up his drink with a face like _thunder_ , and we think he’s gonna head right over to Hajime anyway, but instead he storms out of the casino without a word with us on his heels, actually stops to calmly look both ways before he crosses the street, and then dumps his pornstar martini all over the roof of the Chevy.” Hanamaki bursts out laughing and Kyoutani has to concede that it was a pretty good revenge - if not a totally petty one. It would have totally wrecked the white half-top. Iwaizumi would have been _pissed._

 

Iwaizumi, for his part, just rolls his eyes. “He threw the glass at the bonnet then spat on it too, the shithead,” he adds, though he has an amused glint in his eye that Kyoutani wouldn't have expected whilst he was talking about the destruction of his precious ride. “I kind of deserved it though. Anyway, I’m gonna go pick up the check while Hanamaki chokes down the rest of that ridiculous burger.”

 

It takes a prolonged moment of silence, just long enough for Iwaizumi to clear immediate hearing range as he heads for the counter, before Hanamaki turns on Kyoutani and gives him a conspiratorial look. Kyoutani wonders how many times that look has gotten Iwaizumi and the rest of them into a lot of trouble, then Hanamaki speaks:

 

“If you wanna ask, you probably won’t get a better opportunity than right now.”

 

Kyoutani glances behind him to where Iwaizumi has gone out of reflex, and sees that some old man who’d been nursing some kind of liquor even this early in the evening has snagged him, slapping him on the back and shouting about something. Hunching his shoulders, he turns his attention back to his bottle of beer, thumbnail scratching absently at the corner of its damp label. “‘s none of my business” he mutters.

 

A baritone hum notifies him that Matsukawa’s getting involved, now. “You’re not interested?”

 

He shrugs, uncomfortable with the attention focused on him. He’s not a fan of talking on a good day - people are too complicated - and Hanamaki and Matsukawa sure are an adjustment for him. The way they stick their nose into his business, asking invasive questions and pulling him into their stories like he’s their friend or something - Kyoutani doesn’t know how to handle them.

 

“It’s not what we do,” he says once it’s apparent they’re waiting for an answer. Before they can ask, he elaborates: “we don’t talk about before.” Neither of their ‘before’s. “Never needed to.”

 

“Probably need to now, wouldn’t you say?” Hanamaki prods, face a near-blank mask of polite enquiry. Kyoutani doesn’t know if he’s being genuine or manipulating him and that stresses him out a little. “Now that you’re involved. I mean, I get you don’t want to, because of whatever big bro/lil bro don't ask don't tell thing you’ve had going on, but you probably should know more than what he’s told you. Because knowing _him_ , that’s jack shit.”

 

Matsukawa’s back on his phone - playing a game, Kyoutani thinks - but that doesn’t stop him from making a sound in agreement.

 

“I know enough already,” Kyoutani snaps, shoulders hunching. And then, a little more softly, a little quieter: “They were in love, or whatever.” Iwaizumi and Oikawa, he means. Nobody is as vicious as Oikawa, or hides as much of their self as Iwaizumi, without being really hurt over something. And Kyoutani knows that nothing can hurt a person more than love.

 

When he glances up, both Hanamaki and Matsukawa are staring at him, waiting for more.

 

“He keeps photographs of him,” he elaborates in a mutter, cheeks heating up unnecessarily. “He kept ‘em hidden away but I found ‘em by accident.” Hanamaki raises a thin brow, lips curling in amusement, like he knows there was nothing accidental about it. “He knows I’ve seen them,” Kyoutani clarifies quickly. "He never drives the car, anymore. The first time I'd ever seen it outside of his garage was when we were leaving to come here."

 

Matsukawa flicks his dark gaze over to Iwaizumi, who has somehow extricated himself from the drunk old man and is finishing up paying the bill, scrawling a fake signature for his stolen credit card. “You two are really close, huh.” It’s not a question.

 

Kyoutani is pulling a face before he even realises - he’s had enough people hinting at _that_ for a lifetime. “I’m into girls,” he says, firmly.

 

Hanamaki chokes on his straw, artificially-red soda bubbling violently in his glass as he laughs and coughs at the same time.

 

“I didn’t mean it like that,” Matsukawa drawls, sliding his phone into his pocket.

 

Hanamaki’s still wiping his eyes when Iwaizumi comes back, and Kyoutani’s scowling and tense all over again, not enjoying being the butt of the joke. Iwaizumi doesn’t ask what he’s missed; probably doesn’t want to know. “Let’s go,” he says, slapping Kyoutani on the back of the head on his way past as he heads out of the restaurant. The familiar gesture makes Kyoutani feel a little better even if it does make him feel like a dumb little kid.

 

“I’ll owe him for the rest of my life,” he says quietly as he pushes out of the seat. It’s dumb, but he feels like he can’t put the lid on this conversation until the others start to get it, even if it’s just a little bit. Something like needing to prove his worth to these people who’ve known Iwaizumi for so long; know parts of him Kyoutani is only starting to get hints of. He wants them to know that Iwaizumi hasn’t been alone all this time; that there’s been someone looking out for him, or trying their best to.

 

The other two look at each other, then Matsukawa finally says, “you’re not the only one, kid.”

 

Hanamaki grins, as if to shake off the suddenly somber tone of the conversation, and skips over to wrap a long arm around Kyoutani’s shoulders. “We’ve been with him since we were sixteen; before Oikawa came along even. We’re family. Maybe not perfect, maybe a little crazy, but family all the same. You’re not the first stray Iwaizumi’s brought into it, and you might not be the last. But either way, you’re stuck with us now.”

 

He ruffles Kyoutani’s hair roughly before pulling back. Kyoutani’s a little dumbstruck. He’s family, just like that? He looks between them in suspicion at first, and then watches a little longer just to make sure they’re serious. Then he nods once, in acceptance or gratitude or _something -_ he's not really sure - and then he hustles out of the restaurant after Iwaizumi.

  
  


Iwaizumi’s pulling open the door of the Monte Carlo by the time Kyoutani catches up with him.

 

“Where to now?” he asks, watching Iwaizumi reach into his inner breast pocket and pull out a pair of clubmaster sunglasses to combat the low-hanging evening sun. Kyoutani had never seen Iwaizumi wear a pair of sunglasses until he’d slid into the driver’s seat of the Chevy that day back home. Clearly the car brings out Iwaizumi’s flashy alter-ego, or something.

 

Or maybe his true self.

 

“Daisho’s telling us what kind of a shit show he’s throwing us into tomorrow,” Iwaizumi says as he rounds the door. He leans his forearms on the roof of the car. “So it’s back to the hotel. ...Hey, don’t get in yet.” Kyoutani pauses and frowns from where he is, about to slide into his seat.

 

“Now that we’re all living under the same roof like a happy family,” hollers a voice from behind, and Kyoutani has to mentally prepare himself before he turns to watch Hanamaki slink across the pavement with a self-satisfied smirk on his face. Matsukawa’s walking behind, amusement a little more muted but still present. Fuck. He has a feeling he knows exactly where this is going even before Hanamaki continues: “We all get to ride home together! Move over, lil bro!”

 

It’s all Kyoutani can do to watch as Hanamaki stoops down after hip-checking him out of the way and expertly flicks the lever to make the backrest of the front bench seat flop forward. “God, I forgot how much I fucking hate this dumb car,” he grumbles as he goes about folding all his long limbs enough that he can climb into the back, having to rearrange himself all over again once he’s slid across the leather to sit on the far side. Matsukawa follows him in, movements just as janky and awkward.

 

“Isn’t it lil cuz? - No,” Matsukawa muses, huffing as he pulls his bony knees to his chest, Iwaizumi scowling a little when the man brings his shiny shoes onto the seat. Kyoutani barely waits until they’re settled before he’s forcing the backrest back to its original position with a click. “If he’s Iwaizumi’s son that makes him our nephew, doesn’t it?”

 

Iwaizumi and Kyoutani both ignore him _and_ the considering sound Hanamaki makes in response, sliding in themselves and slamming the doors shut.

 

Iwaizumi hasn’t even pulled out of the parking space before there’s the noise of scuffling in the back, Matsukawa and Hanamaki trying to settle despite the distinct lack of any room and maybe shoving each other a little in the process. “I fucking hate this dumb car!” Hanamaki repeats in a yell, somehow managing to land a kick in the back of Iwaizumi’s seat. “ _Especially_ it’s distinct lack of room in the back! Like, _how?_ The dumb thing is fucking huge!”

 

“You know the rules,” Iwaizumi says, checking his side mirror as he pulls back onto the main street through the city, “idiots in the back.”

 

“Oh?” Hanamaki says, and Kyoutani doesn’t need to look behind him to know the man is pulling some kind of evil-coy expression. “Is that why you and Oikawa would always sneak back here--”

 

“I swear to God, I will stop this car and make you walk back to the hotel. Don’t think I won’t just because I haven’t seen you in years.”

 

Kyoutani rolls his eyes at the way Hanamaki and Matsukawa snigger like naughty little kids in the backseat.

 

♠ ♡ ♣ ♢ ♠ ♡ ♣ ♢ ♠ ♡ ♣ ♢ ♠ ♡ ♣ ♢

 

The next morning, Iwaizumi-san gets a summons from Daisho and calls Kyoutani right after to pass the information on. When they meet at the Chevy - because apparently Daisho had given them the courtesy of one of the extremely limited parking spots at the front of the building (Kyoutani can only assume it’s because the beautiful vintage car helps the hotel’s image rather than being any gesture of goodwill) - the older man looks gruffly resigned. He looks put-together as always, but Kyoutani picks up on his trepidation easily. They pick up coffee at a drive-thru on their way, and then suddenly the city is sprawling out like false scenery behind them as they pull into the lush hills of the elite.

 

“I hate this fucking place,” Iwaizumi sighs out in something that sounds like defeat as they’re waved through a large electronic gate at the edge of Daisho’s estate.

 

 _A power play_ , Iwaizumi had called it, because apparently Daisho likes pulling this shit whenever he can. Especially on Iwaizumi, Kyoutani expects - there’s a _lot_ of animosity there that can’t just be two guys disliking each other on principal. It definitely seems like petty manipulation to call them out here, having already brought them across the country to attend a fucking _party_ and then forcing them into a job. Having them check into his pompous hotel and then dragging them across the other side of the city to the estate that had apparently been in Daisho’s family for generations just seemed spiteful.

 

Beyond the gate is a long, winding gravel driveway flanked on either side by grass too green for the general dryness of the region. Halfway to the house the path snakes around a huge, old willow tree that’s hunched at the center of the green space, as if its gnarled form is knelt in deference to the brick mansion elevated beyond it, the green tresses of leaves hung low enough to trail the ground in places. Kyoutani’s never seen a tree like it, and something about it unsettles him as the car rounds the spectacle of it, gravel crunching beneath tires as Iwaizumi pulls past an obnoxious stone fountain presumably placed there to bolsten the building’s attempt at grandeur. It looks like the kind of place that has seen a lot of guests coming and going - it’s probably been host to too many parties to keep record of - but something about it now just feels dead; like how something can look pretty but hold absolutely no depth or substance.

 

Iwaizumi parks near the two other cars visible in front of the house: one a hulking dark blue four-door that looks way too sporty to be the saloon it’s masquerading as, its badge one Kyoutani doesn’t recognise, and an unmistakable Mercedes - black, imposing, regal - a classic gangster car.

 

Iwaizumi doesn’t wait for Kyoutani to get out of the Chevy before making for the steps leading up to the grand house, clearly feeling no need to lock the car up in such a secured area. Kyoutani hustles to catch up. He isn’t surprised when Iwaizumi reaches straight for the handle of the huge front door instead of attempting to knock or ring a doorbell; isn’t even surprised when someone beats him to it and opens up from the inside. Iwaizumi frowns a little but doesn’t say a word, just throws a glance behind him at Kyoutani before stepping inside.

 

Once again Kyoutani follows.

 

The house is beautiful inside: the first things to meet the eye are the lobby’s gleaming marble floor and its huge staircase, the stain of it matching the rich, dark wood of the rest of the furniture. The walls are a deep mauve, and there’s a full, fresh bouquet of lilies in a vase sat on a side table right by where Kyoutani’s standing. Above the elaborate spray of the white blooms, but slightly off-center, hangs an honest-to-god painted portrait of a woman.

 

The practise of paying someone to spend hours painting a person's portrait is something Kyoutani associates with a bygone era, but her clothes and hairstyle say it’s only maybe a couple decades old. Her sleek dark hair and her sharp eyes tell Kyoutani this is probably Daisho’s mother - Iwaizumi had mentioned that the man’s parents were the last people to live in this house since Daisho keeps residence in a private suite at the hotel, and the similarities are striking. The space beside her gilded frame is strangely bare as if the picture once had a partner hung beside it, since removed.

 

Discomfort creeps up Kyoutani’s spine - warm sunlight streams through the large windows but the air in here feels cold and still. It’s a beautiful house, but Kyoutani can’t picture any children running around in here, can’t imagine laughter bouncing of the walls, or the sound of the radio and soft singing filtering through from another room - Kyoutani doesn’t really know much about those kinds of things either, but TV tells him what happy families should look and sound like. This place… it feels less like a home and more like a mausoleum. Not even someone like Daisho wanted to live here. Suddenly Kyoutani feels like maybe he _gets_ Daisho Suguru a little more than he did five minutes ago.

 

The man himself strides through the double doors to their right, the sleeves of his pristine shirt rolled up neatly and his hands tucked into the pockets of his pressed slacks, a standard look for him it’d seem. Kyoutani wants to roll his eyes at the fact the man’s wearing fucking _braces_ over his slim houlders, but Daisho’s nodding a dismissal at the guy who brought them in and then turns on his heel ( _again_ , like he thinks it makes him look cool or something) to head back through the doors, a clear order to follow.

 

“I can’t believe I’m saying this, but thank god you’re here,” he says, clearly addressing Iwaizumi even if he doesn’t deign to afford even so much as a backwards glance, “the twins were getting annoying.”

 

Kyoutani doesn’t need that explaining to him, because even if they aren’t actually twins, Matsukawa and Hanamaki definitely felt like two halves of _something._

 

The first door on their left is open; beyond that on either side of the short hallway are a few more closed doors, the layout of the home oppressive and impersonal, almost seemingly designed to create divisions and distance. Kyoutani follows Daisho and Iwaizumi through the doorway and sees that they’re in a large dining room, with an imposing chestnut table and chairs dominating the center of the space. There’s a set of french doors leading out onto a patio on the other side,  a pool and garden seen through the clear panes.

 

The occupants of the room are more interesting than the view outside, though - or at least, more worthy of his attention if only for self-preservation purposes. Matsukawa and Hanamaki's expressions are suspiciously blank, though Kyoutani’s sure he sees a sparkle of something devious in Hanamaki’s eyes as they follow Daisho as he rounds the table to stand at head of it, pointedly ignoring the two of them. Hanamaki must have been antagonizing him with great success, which ultimately isn't very surprising.

 

Once he takes a seat, Kyoutani finally turns to glance to Daisho’s left where Oikawa sits, on the opposite side to the patio doors. Kyoutani’s always had a pretty good sense for possible threats and hostility rolls of Oikawa in waves despite the poise with which he sits on the expensive dining chair. There's something off about him, sitting primly but body wound tight with something that might be rage or discomfort. Chocolate eyes swing over to them both finally, cool gaze sweeping down each of them from head to toe, assessing.

 

Iwaizumi, who had frozen near-imperceptibly the moment Oikawa’s eyes had flickered over, finally moves when Matsukawa says his name in a way that’s like a cheer in its cadence but in his signature monotone. Hanamaki grins at Kyoutani and pats the top of the empty chair beside him like he’s desperate for him to sit there; Kyoutani ignores him and pulls out the seat next to Iwaizumi, who has elected to sit at the opposite end of the table to Daisho. Whether it’s a move made specifically to challenge the businessman, or just an attempt to sit as far away as possible from Oikawa, Kyoutani isn’t quite sure.

 

Then there’s silence. Daisho is glaring at Iwaizumi, Iwaizumi is looking back at him, Oikawa’s glaring at the table, Hanamaki and Matsukawa are exchanging blank looks, and Kyoutani’s eyeing them all warily.

 

“Well?” Hanamaki finally says, rearranging his long limbs so that one leg is crossed over the other and his elbow is resting on the gleaming tabletop, his chin cradled in the palm of his hand. His eyes sweep over everyone present as if he’s very, very disappointed in all of them. “Oikawa, you’re not going to make some scathing observation?” he tuts at him like a parent and ignores the vicious look he gets in response. “Daisho, you’re not going to demand everyone’s attention with your Big Bad persona?” Short blond/pink strands ruffle slightly as Hanamaki shakes his head in mock dismay. “Iwaizumi - you’re not gonna frown and demand we get this show on the road?” Iwaizumi _does_ frown then, and mentally Kyoutani _is_ a little amused at that, not that he’d ever show it. “Kyoutani… Well, you’re not much of a talker, anyway,” the dismissive wave sent his way is a little offensive and Kyoutani feels his brows furrow as he glares in response.

 

Hanamaki slaps his hand against the tabletop so hard and sudden that some of them actually wince. “Issei, this is _all_ your fault!!”

 

Matsukawa barely reacts, staying slumped in his chair as he slowly raises his hands up in defense. “What did I do?”

 

“Nothing, but everyone else is so angsty and I wanted a part in it, too.”

 

The tension in the room snaps, and Daisho leans forward in his seat and hisses with the utmost conviction: “I _hate_ you.” Hanamaki just grins, evidently pleased with himself, and sits back in his chair with a wave as if to say ‘proceed’.

 

“You said you needed us to get something back for you,” Iwaizumi says, cutting straight to the point as always. “Something that shouldn’t be in anyone’s possession but yours.” His tone is leading at the end of that statement, like he wants Daisho to elaborate. From the look on the man’s face, they won’t be getting that specific detail.

 

“Yes,” Daisho allows, resting his arms atop the table, flicking his gaze from Iwaizumi to Oikawa.

 

“Who has it?”

 

Kyoutani actually blanches for a second, not realising it’s Oikawa who’d asked the question because he hasn’t heard the man speak without rage or at least utter disdain colouring his voice. It’s smooth, and higher than he’d originally thought. He seems a lot calmer now - still pissed, without a doubt - but like he has himself under better control. Maybe he’s accepted the fact Iwaizumi is here, even if he doesn’t like it.

 

Daisho holds Oikawa’s gaze, interlocking his strangely-delicate hands in front of his face.

 

“Miya.”

 

Kyoutani looks around at the other four men at the table as they still completely at the name and once again, he feels the vast gulf that is their shared history separating him from them, leaving him adrift. Whatever the reason, it’s certainly not a welcome revelation; anything that jolts Matsukawa and Hanamaki from their usual lazy joviality is potentially very worrying.

 

“Which one,” Iwaizumi inquires, though his tone is too flat - too measured - to really sound like a question. He’s apprehensive of the answer.

 

Gazes flick from Iwaizumi, to Oikawa, to Daisho and back again. Daisho’s narrow eyes linger on Oikawa for a fraction of a second too long before he turns to address Iwaizumi. “Atsumu.”

 

Iwaizumi relaxes somewhat, which Kyoutani is immediately grateful for. As if sensing his confusion, Iwaizumi shrugs at Kyoutani. “The Miya twins are totally equal on the asshole front, but the other brother, Osamu, is the kind of guy I can’t stand. Harder to lift from, too.” When Kyoutani moves his gaze across the table Hanamaki is staring at Oikawa, who still seems to be frozen, eyes studying the fruit bowl sat at the center of the surface. Kyoutani seeks out Matsukawa’s gaze for some kind of explanation, but the man just shakes his head the smallest fraction in response. Even he looks tense, Kyoutani thinks.

 

Apparently Daisho isn’t done, and when he speaks again it’s like he’s dealing the final blow. “But everyone knows anything to do with one twin also concerns the other.” The look on his face says he doesn’t particularly give a fuck about that detail despite the fact it's doubling the group's number of targets _and_ their chance of failure.

 

Iwaizumi swipes a hand over his face in exasperation. “Shit, Daisho.”

 

Daisho squares his jaw but otherwise doesn’t move or waver. “Miya Atsumu has some… _files_ in his possession that I would like very much to remain secret,” he says. “It’s not something he should have ever had access to in my opinion, but that’s the way of the way of the world, I guess. I want them out of his hands.” His tone is stern, though it lacks the authority that had struck Kyoutani the first day they’d met. Maybe it’s the admission that he’s lost some kind of control with this particular matter of business, or maybe he just looks more human to Kyoutani now.

 

He still fucking hates him though, so maybe it doesn’t really matter either way.

 

Matsukawa is frowning at Daisho now, arms crossed in front of his chest. “And what form do these particular files take?” he asks, and Daisho actually sends a minute nod his way, as if grateful they’re back on track and asking relevant questions.

 

“They’re photos - ones which could destroy a reputation I am very interested in preserving.” That, at least, is totally unsurprising. Everything Kyoutani has learned about Daisho Suguru until now indicates he cares a hell of a lot about how he is perceived. “As he _gloated_ to me just over a week ago, he has them on his personal phone,” Daisho says, and for the first time Kyoutani gets to see what the hot flash of rage looks like on his face, if only for a second - it vanishes as quick as it came, but irritation and disdain cling on stubbornly to his sharp features. Kyoutani watches as the man lays both hands flat on the polished tabletop and takes a deep breath in. “I don’t doubt he has physical copies as well, which I’m led to believe will be in the safe in his office, if my sources are correct.”

 

Hanamaki is apparently back in the game, because he straightens up in his chair and points a finger at Daisho. “This isn’t about retrieving photographic evidence of some scummy affair is it? You didn’t cheat on your wife - girlfriend or fiancée at the time, I guess - right? Because I’m not covering that up for you. _Not. Cool.”_

 

The glare sent Hanamaki’s way has the man accidentally backing up all the way into Matsukawa in his hurry to create more distance between him and Daisho.

 

“No, I did _not,_ ” is the dangerous-sounding response.

 

Hanamaki just raises his hand up in universal surrender at Daisho’s vehemence.

 

Oikawa gives Hanamaki a look before leaning back in his chair, linked fingers resting over his stomach in a return to his usual demeanor. “So, not only do we have to lift the cellphone Miya Atsumu probably keeps on his person at all times without him noticing, but we also have to break into their fully-secured office which is located in their also heavily-monitored casino? Probably at the same time?” His lack of enthusiasm is obvious even to Kyoutani.

 

Daisho just gives him a carefully blank look. “Aren’t you glad I invited Iwaizumi-kun and the kid, Tooru? Now you have five people.”

 

As if that’s a fucking blessing. Kyoutani doesn’t know much about this business but even he can see that it’s still a tall order, however good Oikawa and even Iwaizumi are supposed to be. All Iwaizumi had done was teach him how to cheat at card games and how to pickpocket someone, something he’d barely had actual practice at. This was like, Ocean’s Eleven type stuff, and that wasn’t even real life.

 

“We’re gonna get murdered over some dumb photos,” he mumbles to Iwaizumi, crossing his arms and glowering to show just how pissed off he is at recent developments. Apparently everyone else at the table hears too, because Matsukawa and Hanamaki grin. Even Oikawa waves his hand in Kyoutani’s direction as if to punctuate the point to Daisho, even if he looks unhappy about agreeing with him.

 

Everyone settles down and there’s a pregnant pause of ten or so seconds before Matsukawa breaks it:

 

“You know Daisho, this is where you turn on a projector or wheel out a whiteboard and fill us in on info pertinent to the job.”

 

Daisho just stares back at him.

 

Hanamaki gapes. “It’s like you’ve never seen a heist movie!!” he accuses, ripe with indignation. “This is so, _so_ sloppy, Daisho. I’m frankly outraged at your lack of effort. Oikawa always does the recon before even bothering to pitch a job to us! Even Iwaizumi had a presentation once!”

 

“You booed at the end because I had no slide transitions,” Iwaizumi interjects, to which Hanamaki just glares.

 

“That’s not relevant here. Don’t try and assassinate the point I’m trying to make, this is for your benefit too, buddy.”

 

Clearly Daisho’s had his fill of Hanamaki once again, because he stands up and rolls his eyes. “If I knew how to pull this off don’t you think I would have done it already? That’s what I’m paying _you_ for, idiot!” He takes a couple of strides towards the french windows, hands on his hips and back to the table, presumably until he counts to ten and takes a deep breath, because once he’s calmed down he turns to address them again. “Oikawa is right, though. You’ll have to do both jobs more or less at the same time, because if you get discovered doing the first, it’ll be impossible to do the other with the alarm raised and tightened security. Not to mention Miya will know exactly what happened and use the remaining copy of the photos against me, so I guess you split. Matsukawa is your computer guy or whatever,” the wave of Daisho’s hand as he says this couldn’t be any more disinterested in what each of them actually does. “And Hanamaki is good at breaking into places he shouldn’t be--”

 

“Like your heart,” Hanamaki butts in quickly with an overly-enthusiastic finger gun, which Daisho tries to rise above by ignoring. He can't quite control his expression though. Kyoutani coughs into his shoulder to hide his amusement.

 

“- _so,_ ” the businessman continues, sounding a little strained. “They should be able to access the back office and the safe inside for the physical copies.”

 

Matsukawa raises his hand like he’s in class. “We want Kyoutani on our team,” he declares, which has Kyoutani’s head whipping around to stare at him. Next to him, Iwaizumi sits forward and somewhere to his left Oikawa mutters something under his breath. Matsukawa glances at Hanamaki before turning to Kyoutani. “If I’m gonna be the ‘computer guy’ hacking remotely and keeping track of everything from some room somewhere, I don’t want Hanamaki going in alone. Something could go wrong.”

 

Kyoutani is torn - part of him wants to do cool shit like breaking and entering into the back of a casino and stealing shit, but another part of him doesn’t want to be away from Iwaizumi on his first job – nor does he particularly want to be left alone with Hanamaki, especially not in a high pressure situation. He turns to Iwaizumi to seek his opinion, and the man is already appraising him with an evaluating look. They’ve got nonverbal communication down to an art with how minimalist they are in their self-expression, so Iwaizumi answers his silent question with a slight tilt to his head, which Kyoutani thinks translates to something like ‘your call’.

 

“Now this is fascinating,” Hanamaki drawls, leaning so far forward to watch them his chest is practically against the table. “It’s like a question of nature versus nurture. Has Kyoutani always been exactly like Iwaizumi, or is he just a product of the environment he was raised in post-adoption? - Well, whatever. Hey kid, you wanna learn how to crack a safe?”

 

Well, that seals it. Of fucking course he wants to learn to crack a safe. He nods wordlessly without even really thinking, and Hanamaki and Matsukawa both throw him a thumbs up.

 

“Well, that leaves the dream team to swipe Atsumu’s phone,” Hanamaki declares, eyes glinting.

 

“So it does,” Daisho affirms coolly.

 

Kyoutani glances between the people in the room with the distinct feeling that a trap has just been sprung. Lucky for him, he guesses, is that he wasn’t the target. Oikawa doesn’t look happy at all, but aside from refusing to glance towards their end of the table he offers no objections.

 

“Give us two weeks,” he says crisply to Daisho instead, as he rises from his seat. “Makki and Mattsun will go to the casino to scope out security and then we’ll regroup when I have some kind of plan.” It's like he can't wait to leave. Kyoutani can sympathize; this house fucking sucks.

 

Daisho nods, apparently satisfied. “I’ll see you when you have what I want, then.”

 

The other three leave the room first, but as Kyoutani and Iwaizumi make for the door, Daisho calls out.

 

“Hajime,” he starts, and it takes Kyoutani a couple of steps more than Iwaizumi to react, halting by the door and turning to observe the other two men. He's not sure he's supposed to linger, but sticking with Iwaizumi is habit by now. “You have the chance to clear a debt, here. To get a second chance,” Daisho continues. Iwaizumi pulls a face that pronounces loud and clear that he has no debt to Daisho, and wants nothing less than a second chance with him or this town. Daisho seems undeterred. “Don’t fuck it up, I won’t be so gracious next time.”

 

And just like that, they’re dismissed. Kyoutani’s glad to be free of the mansion’s oppressive atmosphere once he’s outside and back in the sun. He and Iwaizumi watch as the other three men start to get into the midnight blue saloon. Hanamaki gives an overly forlorn wave over the top of the car before they disappear inside and are then gone down the long and winding driveway.

 

“That was weird,” Kyoutani finally allows himself to say once they’re alone inside their own car, and Iwaizumi hums in agreement before it’s drowned out completely by the waking roar of the Chevy’s engine. He lets it idle for a little while to allow the behemoth to warm up, one hand on the steering wheel as he sends a contemplative stare out through the windshield. Kyoutani slouches further down on the white leather bench seat and glares up at the giant house before them, trying to see whatever Iwaizumi sees. Somehow, he thinks the other is thinking of something else entirely. “You think it’s doable? This whole thing is shady as fuck.”

 

Iwaizumi hums again and finally throws the hulking vehicle into reverse, the gravel crunching loudly beneath the tires. “It’s always like that with Daisho,” he says as he swings the Chevy around in a wide arc, before following the route out of the estate Matsukawa’s car had taken ahead of them. “But he does seem pretty invested in this, and he never used to like me doing things for him that were important.” He pauses, and then glances at Kyoutani as they clear the bend around the willow tree. “ Something else was off, though. What was weird about it to you?”

 

Kyoutani can tell, just by the man’s tone, that Iwaizumi has entered teaching mode. He’s a good teacher, unlike the boring old creatures at school (when Kyoutani still bothered to attend), where it was all about someone standing at the front of the room and shoving useless facts down your throat. Kyoutani didn’t mesh too well with that format, not particularly gifted with traditional academics and in possession of an issue with authority figures. Iwaizumi, though, always showed Kyoutani by doing. Nowadays, he'll present a case to Kyoutani and then ask his opinion on whatever it is. Letting him work through a problem himself; giving him the chance to figure out the answer and gain the knowledge or learn the skill on his own. Kyoutani has always learned by doing - Iwaizumi had started applying that to teaching Kyoutani how to observe and deduce, and it had _worked._

 

“All of it,” he huffs, but Iwaizumi gestures for him to elaborate with one hand as they clear the gates and head far the fuck away from Daisho’s eerie estate. “There was everyone’s reaction when you all found out who we’ve gotta steal from,” he says slowly, and is bolstered somewhat by Iwaizumi’s encouraging nod. “And how you were the only one who relaxed when you found out which twin it was. The others were still weird about it. If not more so.”

 

A quirk of a smile. “Which means?”

 

Kyoutani pauses for a second, thinking it over with a frown. If Iwaizumi was relieved it was the one guy but the others weren’t, then that had to mean— “something happened between them and that particular twin between when you left and now?”

 

Iwaizumi offers him a lazy thumbs-up before he’s flicking on his turn signal, pulling out of the loose cluster of expensive houses that lie between Daisho’s grounds and the road that eventually leads back onto the highway. Once he’s successfully merged, he prods again: “What else?”

 

There is something else that’s bothering him a little, now that he’s thinking about it. The only problem is, it maybe toes the line of his and Iwaizumi’s friendship, the one which dictates that they don’t discuss personal things like their history, or past relationships with other people. But still, Iwaizumi’s asking even though they’re probably thinking on the same thing, so it must be okay. He decides to go for broke.

 

“Your ex was being weird,” he says finally, temple pressed to the glass of the passenger side window so he doesn’t have to look at Iwaizumi. “Last time he was really pissed and didn’t wanna see you ever again-” Iwaizumi chuckles softly, and Kyoutani thinks he’s probably got a look on his face that says he is both amused and in total agreement. “But this time he barely said a word. He didn’t even yell about the fact you and him have gotta work together. Alone.” It just didn’t make sense. “He doesn’t really seem like the type to left stuff go, so--”

 

“Weird,” Iwaizumi agrees easily. “Yep.” Kyoutani _has_ to look then, shifting slightly so he can slide his gaze over to the other man. Iwaizumi’s brows are furrowed, and he has that faraway look in his eye again, thinking deeply. The look on his face is full of concern, and even though now it’s clear the two of them have been dragged into some against-the-odds bullshit, Kyoutani knows by now there’s probably only one person Iwaizumi could ever be so worried for.

 

♠ ♡ ♣ ♢ ♠ ♡ ♣ ♢ ♠ ♡ ♣ ♢ ♠ ♡ ♣ ♢

 

A few days later, and Kyoutani is starting to get bored and more than a little restless. He wants to go to some casinos or bars that match the flashiness and wealth of the city – he wants to see how the other side lives, finally. But Iwaizumi sticks to diners and divebars whenever they head out, and the one time Kyoutani works up the courage to voice his discontent, the elder man says something about keeping a low profile ahead of the job. Kyoutani wonders if he’s avoiding temptation, or if perhaps there are more people in the city than just Daisho and Oikawa who wouldn’t be so happy to see him again. Still, it’s fucking boring. He can’t use the pool, and the last thing he wants to do is try out the fucking spa and sit around having strangers touch him.

 

This morning, Kyoutani wakes up and heads across the room to walk onto the small balcony, lighting up and noticing a notification on his phone for a voicemail from an unknown number.

 

Usually, he wouldn’t think twice before deleting the thing before listening to it, but as he squints out over the hotel grounds slowly coming to life for the day, he decides what the hell.

 

“Yoooo lil neph’,” by now, Kyoutani would be able to identify that monotone anywhere: it’s Matsukawa. “Me and Uncle Makki have done a sweep of the place and got the scoop, so if you’ve got a sweet tooth come on over. Even if you don’t, you still gotta come – them’s the rules, amigo. Anyway, Oikawa’s place, 1pm. Iwaizumi knows how to get there. See you soon, good buddy.”

 

Kyoutani’s still squinting as the message cuts off, and he lets out a plume of cigarette smoke, wondering how he actually managed to follow that bizarre stream of information.

 

Shit, he’s actually getting used to them.

 

He stubs his cigarette out on the balcony’s railing (because fuck you, Daisho) but still dutifully stuffs the butt of it in the beercan in the corner he’s using as an improvised ashtray.

 

Iwaizumi’s probably been awake for a while - Kyoutani knows he at least is using all the complimentary services like the gym and spa as much as he can as his own personal fuck you to the hotel’s owner - so he taps at the cracked screen of his phone to text Iwaizumi a summary of the day’s plans in as few words as possible.

  
  


 

It’s weird, how things change.

 

A little over a week ago, Kyoutani had barely managed a glance at Iwaizumi’s prized possession, but now it’s totally second nature to pull open the heavy door of the Monte Carlo and slide onto the pristine bench seat. He’s as comfortable in the car as he is in his modest apartment - maybe even more so. The car is still as gorgeous as the moment he saw it unveiled in the sun-warmed but musty air of Iwaizumi’s garage, but he’s used to its spectacle by now. The rumble-roar of the engine is less distracting and more comforting as they slide through the city’s streets. It’s nice to sit like this with Iwaizumi too - usually they’re content to sit and let the radio fill the quiet space between them, but sometimes they’ll talk. Today, Iwaizumi tells him about the Miya twins.

 

“We didn’t ever cross them or anything,” Iwaizumi explains, one hand resting on the steering wheel with the other idly curled around the gear stick. “We didn’t actually cross many people who stay in the city, or are too involved. Just people passing through - you don’t shit where you eat.” He flashes a grin at Kyoutani, and though he doesn’t outwardly react, the younger is glad he’s losing some of the tension he’d gained when he’d first arrived in the city, when he’d fielded barbs from both Daisho and Oikawa and the old guilt he carried was so, so obvious to Kyoutani.

 

Iwaizumi’s the kind of guy who usually offers smiles easily, whether they're genuine, teasing, or smug, but Kyoutani isn’t like that. It’s one of the many things he both envies and respects about the other.

 

“But they were asshole kids with a trust fund-” the kind of guys both Kyoutani and Iwaizumi hate “-and they liked to show off. Maybe they’ve changed, but back then they looked exactly the same as each other ‘cept for the hair. Atsumu was the gaudy one: always showing off; always had people fawning over him wherever he went; flirted with nearly everyone he talked to. He used to flirt with Oikawa a lot-” he takes a breath like he’s going to say something else, but then stops. Kyoutani risks a sideways glance, but Iwaizumi just rolls his shoulders back and signals a turn like nothing about that is a big deal. Kyoutani realizes, probably a little belatedly, that Iwaizumi and Oikawa had been together then so of course that would have been a sticking point for the other man, enough of a reason to dislike him.

 

“But you hated the other one more,” Kyoutani says, as if he’s just recalling the fact rather than pushing Iwaizumi on from the point he’d just made. Iwaizumi seems to settle a little more at the diversion and nods.

 

“Osamu, yeah. Well - hate is kind of a strong word, maybe. It’s not like we had a fight or anything, but he’s the worst. The kind of guy that’d piss you off, too.” Kyoutani’s curious - has been since the whole thing was brought up, really - so he swivels a little in the seat so he can better pay attention. “One of those straight-faced types, you know?” Iwaizumi says. “Lazy, bored expression. Acts like nothing is important or bothers him at all. Kind of like Matsukawa but without the dumb sense of humor. And also a total asshole with it.”

 

Oh, Kyoutani knew the type. The type that would purposely piss you off and then refuse to react when they finally got a rise out of you - the kind of thing Kyoutani fell for hook, line and sinker. He knew that well enough. He might not be the brightest of people, but he was self-aware enough that he wasn’t actually a total idiot like people seemed to think. Iwaizumi was calmer than Kyoutani, or at least a lot less outwardly aggressive, but the younger wonders if that had been the case in the past. It wouldn’t be such a leap to assume that was exactly why Iwaizumi had hated this twin so much.

 

There’s been a lot of times Iwaizumi has outwardly laughed at Kyoutani’s predicaments and frustrations because they were apparently so similar, so Kyoutani could almost imagine a younger Iwaizumi being a lot less calm than he seems to be now - not to say that Iwaizumi hasn’t chewed him out a few times.  Kyoutani can’t decide whether they’d have been the best of friends or the bitterest of rivals if they’d been the same age and met earlier. It’s just one of the many things he’ll never know, he supposes.

 

“So yeah, I disliked him and he loved to dig at me, but we aren’t enemies or anything like that. There’s not gonna be a showdown between me and Miya Osamu.”

 

That’s a relief - for the job at least, because personally, Kyoutani kind of really wants to see Iwaizumi in a fight.

 

Today’s drive isn’t as lengthy as the one to Daisho’s place had been, but they still drive out of the city a little ways, in the opposite direction. They end up in a ‘nice neighbourhood’, with houses separated from each other with walls and gates, but the atmosphere couldn’t be more different than Daisho’s creepy estate and the snobbish neighbourhood in front of it. The plot sizes here are a lot smaller (in that they don’t have huge amounts of pointless space), probably determined more by how much space the terrain would allow - the wide road of the street they’re currently driving up steadily snakes up a large, stout hill. The houses are the focus here, not the amount of land or weird trees or obnoxiously long driveways. They aren’t as huge or old-fashioned as what they’d seen a few days before; instead the homes seem to boast modernity in each of their unique designs.

 

This side of the outskirts seems more warm than parched dry, more easy-going than stiff, and just generally a lot less shitty of a place. Through the car’s open windows, Kyoutani can smell a barbeque happening somewhere behind a garden fence, pop music distantly playing elsewhere. It’s nice, and normal despite the clear wealth in the neighborhood. It’s the kind of place he’d probably live in if he had the cash to pay for it.

 

Iwaizumi pulls onto a smaller street that wraps around the side of the hill, driving until he reaches the white gate at the end and pressing down on his horn twice. There’s a moment of waiting, where the man taps almost nervously at his steering wheel before the gate slides open with a rattle.

 

“Let’s get this show on the road,” he mutters, flicking the car back into gear and driving up the paved driveway.

 

The first thing Kyoutani notices is the amount of green. There’s a bunch of plants all around the enclosed space within the walls with big, green leaves, vibrant and healthy in the bright sunlight. He can’t see any kind of plan or method to their planting, just that they seem to be in enough places to make whole place seem full of life. Past that, at the center of the lot and impossible to miss is an angular one-storey house, painted white with a sloped roof.

 

The front side boasts a bunch of floor-to-ceiling windows, a shaded wooden veranda in front of the glass that bridges the house and the greenery beyond. The driveway leads past that and round to the side of the house, and once Iwaizumi approaches, Kyoutani can see this is where the porch and front door are located. Perpendicular to the house is a garage painted in the same colour: the large garage door is closed, but the shaded carport attached to the front of it houses Matsukawa’s saloon from the other day. Iwaizumi doesn’t pull in behind it - instead the car turns in its customary wide arc when they draw level with the house’s door, Iwaizumi apparently fine with parking the car at an angle in the large space since they’re (as usual) the last to arrive. Something tells Kyoutani they'll be encouraged to be the first to leave, too.

 

Iwaizumi kills the engine and pulls out the key. Then he pauses for just a second. “I used to live here,” he says, expression complicated, and then gets out and slams the door, apparently unwilling to say much more. Kyoutani more or less scrambles to follow him out.

 

There’s no one to greet them here, so with no fanfare at all and not even a hint of his earlier hesitation, Iwaizumi opens the door and steps inside. There’s a small entrance hall - too short to really be a ‘hall’ at all - but once they clear the door at the end, the space completely opens up.

 

In here, it’s predictably light and airy, the walls and decor simple, relaxed. More plants. Smaller versions of the leafy ones from outside, various ferns too, all in white pots placed randomly around the large open-plan living/dining room, with a couple on the low wall separating the kitchen from the rest of the space. Despite how simple and modern the place is though, it feels like somewhere a person could live rather than some slickly-decorated house in a magazine. Something about it reminds him of Iwaizumi’s place back home - simple, yeah, but made with comfort in mind.

 

The furniture isn’t what you’d expect from the exterior of the house. The couches arranged into an U shape near the large windows are huge and look super comfortable, like the kind you’d sit your ass down in and not leave for the rest of the day. That’s where Matsukawa and Hanamaki are currently lounging, heads on opposite arms of the couch, though their bent legs are tangled together.

 

“I was really expecting the front door to be locked or something,” Iwaizumi says, looking around the place before moving towards the other couch to sit down, a little cautious. Kyoutani follows, mentally cursing when he immediately sinks into the seat cushion. The couch is fucking awesome.

 

Hanamaki blinks over at Iwaizumi. “We’d never do anything so petty,” he says blandly, before turning back to the TV mounted on the wall, some reality show on the screen. "I even buzzed you in right away." Hanamaki says it like he did Iwaizumi a huge favor in doing so.

 

“Wasn’t worried about you two, for once,” is the immediate response, which makes Hanamaki grin and shrug.

 

“Where’s Oikawa?” Iwaizumi asks then, and Kyoutani realizes the glancing around is the other looking for him.

 

“Suddenly interested in what I’m up to after all these years, Iwa-chan?”

 

It’s chirpy, saccharine-sweet but also really fucking bitter in the way Kyoutani thinks only Oikawa can be when talking to Iwaizumi. They all turn to face Oikawa, who’d emerged from a sliding door on the opposite side of the room, presumably leading to the rest of the house. And - it’s a really fucking jarring sight. The couple of times Kyoutani’s seen Oikawa he’s been so sleek and put-together, all hard lines in a perfectly tailored suit. Right now he’s in a soft, baggy white sweater, stone-washed jeans and glasses. His face is still hard and distinctly unimpressed, but the effect really is lost by how casually he’s dressed.

 

But well, this is his home, right? Kyoutani guesses it makes sense he’d want to be comfortable here. It’s still totally weird for him, having already gotten used to being constantly wary of Oikawa by this point, to see the other man pad across the room in bare feet with a macbook tucked under his arm. He just looks like any other guy his age.

 

Iwaizumi doesn’t rise to the bait. He just watches the other, dark eyes set with a hint of wariness and some other things Kyoutani can’t put a name to.

 

“Well, let’s get this show on the road,” Oikawa announces, and Kyoutani jolts at the repetition of what Iwaizumi had just said in the car. He glances the other’s way but Iwaizumi’s eyes are drifting around the room again.

 

A reality star’s distant whining gets cut off as Oikawa connects his laptop to the TV, changing the channel so he can broadcast the contents to the room. A photo of two men, disturbingly similar except for the colour and parting of their hair flashes up on the screen.

 

“So to recap for the denser ones present,” Oikawa flicks a distasteful glance in his and Iwaizumi’s direction, which makes Kyoutani bristle in response, “Dai-chan wants us to steal from the Miya twins, more specifically Miya Atsumu-kun,” he produces an actual fucking laser pointer out of nowhere and draws a circle around the twin on the right hand side of the photograph. “Miya-kun has been naughty and got himself some dirt on Dai-chan, to blackmail or threaten him, who knows! Either way, _bad decision_ ,” Oikawa croons, taking great delight in drawing a big ‘X’ over the man’s face.

 

“But he was at least smart enough to keep two different copies,” he announces dramatically, clicking over to the next slide, which results in cheers from Matsukawa and Hanamaki when, with a couple more clicks, clipart images of a safe and a cellphone fly around the screen before settling still.

 

“Physical copies locked up in their office,” Oikawa continues, unnecessarily circling the safe with his laser before moving to do the same to the other picture. “And electronic copies on his precious cellphone. Thus, the job is in two parts - break into the office to grab the physical copies, and steal the phone to delete the electronic copies! But time is of the essence,” Oikawa narrates, as if reading a story to a bunch of children, clicking again so a large image of a clock slides down from above to cover the other two illustrations, “so these must be done at the same time, preferably both in the casino.”

 

The next slide has a vacation photo of Matsukawa and Hanamaki reclining on a beach somewhere, cocktails held aloft - and a photo of an angry dog clearly taken from google stuck crudely next to it. Predictably, the two men on the other sofa guffaw at the sight of it. “Makki, Mattsun and Kyouken-chan will handle the physical copies,” he says, and when he clicks for the next slide, it contains a few pictures of the inside of the casino that look like they’ve been taken from the official website. “Makki?”

 

Hanamaki swings around so his feet land on the floor, scooching forward and resting his elbows on his knees. “Aside from Kyoutani, we’ve all been to this casino a few times - it hasn’t really changed any since you were last there, Iwaizumi - so at least it’s familiar ground. It’s connected to the Grand Plaza Hotel, sharing the ground floor of the building with the hotel’s lobby, function room and restaurant. Luckily the twins only own the casino, which means their office is in the back of the ground floor, not somewhere way up high which’d be a ball-ache to get to and away from, though they do each rent their own suite in the hotel. The security’s as tight as you’d expect. We’ve got security guards posted around the place to watch out for cheaters, bad losers and anyone else who might cause a scene. All staff have earpieces and mics that connect to an internal radio channel to keep in contact.”

 

He nods at Oikawa, who clicks to the next slide, featuring a floor plan with red hand-drawn x’s dotted around. “Shitload of cameras which record but are also monitored live by staff in the security office.” Oikawa clicks again and a smaller room in the back corner of the floorplan is circled in blue. “Of course, the security system is linked to the police in case there’s a robbery. Response time is a few minutes, same as all the big casinos on the strip. That should only be triggered if there’s an attempt made on the vault storing all the money, if someone presses a panic button in the event of a raid or armed robbery, or otherwise raises the alarm.”

 

This is already a lot of information, so Kyoutani wills himself to concentrate. He chances a glance over at Iwaizumi, who looks relaxed where he sits, though his face shows he’s completely focused as he nods at the information. Feeling eyes on him, Kyoutani turns to Hanamaki to see the man’s watching him, waiting, so he nods as well. Hanamaki nods at Oikawa, who clicks again. This time, a cellphone picture of a door with a black box beside it appears on the TV.

 

“There are a few access points to the back since the space is so large, but the best is close to the bar. That’s the area with the most traffic - if the bar is crowded we’re less likely to get noticed by security nearby. Entrance into the back is pretty straightforward since it's unconnected to the casino's vault. It's just the break room and stuff back there - just a swipe of an electronic key card issued to each staff member.” Hanamaki reaches into his jacket pocket and produces a thin white plastic rectangle, held between two fingers.

 

“I know someone who works at the bar there. He swiped a co-worker’s card for me to clone - smart kid, not giving me his own. Of course, each swipe triggers a notification to come up on the security office monitor. Apparently the kid is new, so the security staff shouldn’t know him by sight if they decide to actually check. So if, say, me and Kyoutani were wearing the staff uniform and went through the door with his card, they shouldn’t freak out. Word is that staff go through together on one swipe all the time. It’s from this point it gets tricky.”

 

Matsukawa nods, leaning an elbow on the couch arm nearest to him. “There’s a lot riding on what I can do remotely,” he contributes. “I tried getting into the system last night, which worked, but I didn’t stick around for long. There’s no telling how long I can stay in there without getting detected - depends on how proactive their electronic security is. Making Makki and Kyoutani vanish from the security feeds once they’re in the back should be fairly straightforward; but it’s up to them to avoid getting figured out by people walking around back there.”

 

Hanamaki sends Kyoutani a wink, who can’t help but roll his eyes in response. He’s really not looking forward to partnering up with the man, especially not since - as much as he hates to admit it - he’ll be relying on him to keep them from getting arrested or like, murdered.

 

Matsukawa continues, “The twins’ office is obviously a little harder to get in. Our buddy, who we kindly asked to make a little detour from the staffroom to check it out, snapped this picture for us.” A nod and the screen changes again, to an even more blurry cellphone shot of a black door and a box beside it. “According to him, it isn’t guarded or anything ridiculous like that, but there’s not much around it that would justify staff members hanging around there. There’s a box like the staff entrances but it has a keypad on it, too. So probably a swipe _and_ keycode lock.”

 

“It’s likely the only people with cards that can access that are the twins, then,” Iwaizumi says, and the two men opposite nod. Iwaizumi frowns. “If we’re hitting these simultaneously, we can’t swipe the key from Atsumu when we get his phone, it’d have to be before that,” he murmurs. “But we can’t lift from him twice in the same night - that’s impossible.”

 

Oikawa, who’d been silent until now, uncrosses his legs. The aggression in his face has been replaced with the same intense concentration on Iwaizumi’s by now; he’s getting into it. It’s weird to Kyoutani, the way the two men’s expressions mirror each other.

 

“Osamu,” Oikawa says, and everyone including Kyoutani nods at the conclusion.

 

“Iwaizumi’s infamous return will come in handy,” Hanamaki says, devoid of jest now they’re getting into the meat of the plan. “Especially if you show up in their casino. Atsumu will make more of a scene, but Osamu is sure to tag along if he’s around too. He liked needling you the best, I think. You could swipe _his_ card instead.”

 

Iwaizumi sighs wearily, and Kyoutani knows he’s thinking about how many people so far have taken great delight in making some sort of comment about him coming back. It is pretty inevitable, especially if his relationship with the twins had been as antagonistic as it sounds.

 

Oikawa sets his laptop down on the coffee table and drags a large ottoman a little closer to the sofas. Once he’s settled on top of it, he shakes his head. “Iwaizumi can’t make the lift from Osamu,” he says, pulling everyone’s interest towards him as he turns to look at the man in question. “It requires physical contact, and you’ve never touched him before. There’s no way either of you would go in for a hug, or have any reason to touch. Plus, they know you’re a Cannon. He’d know something was up right away if you got that close, especially showing up for the first time in forever.” And naturally that’d unravel everything, even Kyoutani can see that. “It’ll have to be done the old-fashioned way,” the brunette continues, his gaze moving to meet Kyoutani’s meaningfully.

 

“You want Kyoutani to do it?” That’s Hanamaki, looking and sounding equal parts surprised and delighted.

 

Oikawa shrugs, his face practically screaming that they have no other option even if he doesn’t like it. “Some rough-looking new employee accidentally bumps into him while rushing somewhere or other. Nobody in town knows him, so he won’t be recognised. I can rope someone in to be a Shade for him in case it rouses suspicion anyway.”

 

Iwaizumi doesn’t look too happy. “Oikawa, that’s asking a little much--”

 

“He’s your apprentice, right Iwa-chan?” Oikawa asks, eyes stormy when they settle on Iwaizumi. He says the nickname almost like it’s an insult. “I’m assuming you’ve taught him everything you know, even if this type of thing is supposed to be below you now. He’s here, so let’s have him be useful.”

 

Iwaizumi looks ready to argue, but Kyoutani is a little offended at his lack of faith and also very interested in preventing another bitch fight in his presence, so he cuts it off before it can even start with a succinct “I’ll do it.”

 

Both men turn to him, Iwaizumi looking reluctant and Oikawa with the slightest bit of approval in his hard expression.

 

“Anyway,” Matsukawa reels them back in. “Once the card is handed off to Makki and the two of you get into the back _and_ make it to the Miya’s office undetected-” his mouth slants to show he realises that’s not as simple as it sounds rattled off like that, “-you’ve got to open the door. The swipe lock should be covered by the keycard, but the code… It looks like a standard 0-9 keypad, which means 10,000 possible combinations, assuming that numbers can be repeated. I should be able to hack into the system to get the combination, but it might take time.”

 

“You said you already hacked it yesterday, right?” Kyoutani asks, feeling like he’s about to state the obvious, but he doesn’t get it - “why couldn’t you just get the code then? Or now, before we go in?”

 

There’s a minute shake of the head from Matsukawa, before he shrugs. “Fear of detection. I got in, but I didn’t _do_ anything once I did. If they detected a break-in they could lock-down or change the system, which would make the preliminary scout a complete waste of time. At least now I know _how_ to get in, which means I can do it much quicker on the day. Plus, there’s no way to know whether the office code changes every day. If I got the code now without getting discovered, it could still be wrong which would also fuck everything up when you put it into the keypad.”

 

Kyoutani supposes that makes a lot of sense. He feels kind of dumb for asking the question now, and more than a little out of his depth as usual around these guys, but then Iwaizumi nudges him gently with his elbow as a quick little gesture of reassurance. It helps him settle back down almost immediately, though it means he has to avoid the gazes of the other three men in the room, especially Oikawa. It’s like they’re being watched like hawks whenever they interact. It’s kind of really fucking awkward.

 

Someone clears their throat, and then Matsukawa forges on.

 

“So basically, I’m going to have do a real-time brute force attack on the system. The code will be encrypted, so I’ve got to try searching for all the combinations to find the matching hash string that correlates to the code for the lock, then decrypt it. We’re gonna have to time it right so that you guys use the code as soon as I find it, which means you’re on a limit as soon as I start the process.”

 

Kyoutani winces. So, slipping into the back of a heavily-monitored casino undetected, then sneaking around until they find the big boss’ office in a hallway they have no business being in, all in a very specific time-frame? Kyoutani doesn’t like it.

 

“Once we’re in, Mattsun will be back to making sure no one realizes something funny is up, both on- and offline,” Hanamaki continues. “We don’t know what exactly kind of safe is keeping all their nasty shit secure in there, but I’m ninety percent sure I can crack it.”

 

Kyoutani’s right there with Oikawa and Iwaizumi as they gape at the man incredulously. At the silent criticism Hanamaki winces, bringing his shoulders up.

 

“Alright, alright, maybe eighty percent.”

 

That’s not really what they want to fucking hear.

 

“You don’t know what kind of safe you’re going to try and break into?!” Iwaizumi explodes, while Oikawa just looks as aghast as Kyoutani feels.

 

“Well I’m not a fucking psychic!” is Hanamaki’s indignant reply.

 

This is where Mattsun steps back into the conversation to smooth things over. “It’ll be fine. Probably. I’m going to see if I can find an invoice or something from when they bought it, and Hanamaki is going to ask his weird friends if any of them know.”

 

“You’re not fucking up on your side of the job,” Iwaizumi asserts. He points angrily at Hanamaki and then at Mattsun, and Kyoutani feels fucking relieved that the man’s scolding isn’t aimed at him. He knows what it’s like, and it isn’t a nice feeling. Iwaizumi just pulls off angry disappointment _so well._ “Even if you have to carry the whole damn safe out on your back without getting caught, you are _not_ fucking up.”

 

For once, Hanamaki and Matsukawa actually look cowed, pulling back slightly and nodding.

 

“Well,” Oikawa says, clapping his hands and dragging the word out to an almost obnoxious degree. “From that revelation, let’s move on to the other matter of business - swiping Atsumu-kun’s phone!”

 

Conspicuously, there’s no funny picture to represent the second team in the job. In fact, there’s no new slide at all. Oikawa just presses the lid of his macbook closed, setting it aside and then bringing his legs up to sit criss-cross on the ottoman. Kyoutani had thought his expression was stony before, but it has nothing on how it looks now.

 

“There’s no way we can be there together. People know what happened-” his jaw tics, but Oikawa forges on, “especially those who knew us, twins included. It’d be too suspicious. This team makes no sense.” There’s blame in there somewhere, maybe aimed at Daisho, or the two other men who’d been very keen to go along with Daisho’s decision back at the mobster’s house. Notably, Hanamaki and Matsukawa stay quiet.

 

Iwaizumi glares back. “Fine. Since I’m apparently gonna be a star attraction, I can--”

 

Oikawa doesn’t like that.

 

“Retirees shouldn’t give themselves the most important role in the play,” he snarks back almost immediately, like a cobra who’d been coiled and ready to strike. “What if Osamu is the only one to bother you? What if they _both_ approach you at the same time - do you really think you can make the grab from Atsumu with his brother right there?”

 

That’s actually… kind of a good point. Kyoutani looks at Iwaizumi, who’s frowning like he knows it, too.

 

“So what’s your master plan then?”

 

It’s a challenge, Iwaizumi daring Oikawa to do better, and the man meets his stare, defiant. “I can get Atsumu alone,” he says with his nose in the air, everything about him radiating complete confidence in that fact. “I’ll handle the lift while you keep watch - maybe you can keep Osamu distracted if they're together. I’ll hand the phone off to you when I’ve got it, and you can take it up to Mattsun to work his nerdy magic on it and make the files go bye-bye.”

 

“We’ll all have super-spy earpieces in so we can keep in contact with each other. Digital, so it won’t interfere with the staff’s radio frequency, or something,” Hanamaki explains gleefully.

 

“He shouldn’t have any crazy security on his cell, so I’ll be able to crack it pretty easy,” Matsukawa says. “But you’re still gonna have to keep him from noticing it’s missing ‘til it’s done and we can get it back to him,” he says directly to Oikawa, expression loaded with things Kyoutani has no fucking clue about. Iwaizumi has taught him how to closely observe people though, and he knows both he and his mentor pick up the way Oikawa purposefully holds Matsukawa’s gaze, as if he’s making a point.

 

“That won’t be a problem.”

 

The excitement of their plotting fizzles out then, leaving behind the heavy, oppressive tension between Iwaizumi and Oikawa. Iwaizumi doesn’t like the second half of the plan, that much is clear, but he’s decided to keep quiet to prevent the argument Oikawa seems so ready for, to stop making the atmosphere any worse. His expression is thunderous, though.

 

“Good,” Oikawa says, as if everyone has accepted the plan easily, ignoring the tension. He unfolds his long limbs and then rises to stand, pulling a phone out of his pocket. “Makki, fill them in on the rest while I put things into motion,” he orders, waving the phone in his hand like it explains what he’s up to. He slips on a pair of sandals by the wall of windows before reaching over to slide one of the panes aside - a door, apparently - and stepping onto the shadowed veranda. There’s no lights on out there, and the glow from inside only illuminates him for a few steps before he disappears into the garden.

 

There’s a few moments of silence while the tension dissipates somewhat with Oikawa’s absence, and then Matsukawa is folding his arms. “He can do it, Iwaizumi.”

 

Iwaizumi’s still frowning, and his hand drops to drum against the arm of the couch. “I don’t doubt it,” he says, staring at each of his friends intently. “It’s the how that I don’t think I’m gonna like.”

 

Hanamaki and Matsukawa look at each other, and then: “He’d say that’s none of your business, not anymore.” It sounds a lot like Matsukawa agrees with Oikawa when he says that; and it’s the first time Kyoutani gets a hint of hurt from the man.

 

There’s no response to that.

  
  


A little while later, Hanamaki has finally given them a date for when it’s going to happen - four days from now, a Saturday night when it’s guaranteed to be busy in the casino - and a meeting place and time so they can be “fitted with their spy tech” (a direct quote from Hanamaki). Oikawa still hasn’t returned, but Iwaizumi doesn't seem in a rush to leave, despite the difficult atmosphere. Kyoutani wonders if he's missed this house, since it used to be his home, too.

 

Or maybe he’s waiting for a chance to talk to Oikawa. Kyoutani thinks that’s a long shot with how openly hostile the man is.

 

Hanging around here in Oikawa’s home (Oikawa and Iwaizumi’s _old home_ ) makes Kyoutani feel on edge, so if they’re gonna hang around and do nothing he figures they won’t miss him for the few minutes it’ll take to smoke a cigarette. He has a lot to process, and the amount of focus and tension he’s had to endure has made the box in his pocket feel ten times heavier, and left him unable to think of anything else but a smoke for the last twenty minutes. He pulls the pack out in front of the others so he won’t have to explain with words where he’s going, and then slips out of the front door, standing at the bottom of the steps leading down from the porch as he lights up.

 

He’s so focused in satisfying his craving that it takes him a few seconds to realise he’s not alone out there. Apparently done with his phone call, Oikawa blinks up at him, a deer caught in headlights. He’s standing at the hood of the Monte Carlo, long, thin fingers paused in their careful tracing of the car’s sleek lines now he's been caught in the act.

 

Kyoutani blinks back, then slowly raises the cigarette back to his lips to take another drag. It's a peace offering, kind of. At that, Oikawa seems to lose most of the stiffness that had overtaken him when they’d spotted each other and turns back to the car. Briefly, Kyoutani wonders if Oikawa is always ready for some kind of fight.

 

Kyoutani at least has no interest in engaging him; Oikawa’s a dangerous type.

 

“You ever driven this thing?” Oikawa asks, aiming for casual conversation and missing it by miles.

 

Despite his general wariness of the other, Kyoutani snorts. “Not a fucking chance,” he says, feeling weird about engaging with the man alone, especially since he’s apparently fishing for something. “He’d never even really shown it to me until the day we drove down here.”

 

Oikawa tilts his head back so he can look at him. “So he’s even more obsessive about it now. I drove it once years ago, when he got stabbed. It’s a fond memory.”

 

“I didn’t think you hated him back then.” He thinks it’s totally normal to balk a little at that - why would someone you care about getting stabbed ever be a _fond memory?_

 

The brunette makes a noise like he thinks Kyoutani is a complete idiot. “It was only a little bit, nothing deep or dangerous. Besides, I was talking about driving this thing, not the actual stabbing part.” He pats the hood affectionately, going quiet for a moment. “I did scratch it up a bit, though - I’m not a very good driver, _apparently_. Though it's kind of hard when the lo-- when someone is bleeding and swearing loudly in the passenger seat. He got mad and I was never allowed to drive it again, no matter the circumstance.”

 

His tone is wistful. Kyoutani can tell Oikawa loves the car; is more tied to it than he ever will be. Even so, he doesn’t think this is really about the car at all.

 

Oikawa has been a raging dick almost the whole time they've been here, but Kyoutani knows what it’s like to be hurt by people. To be abandoned. If you don’t toughen up you’ll break, that’s just how it is. He kind of feels sorry for the man, even if Oikawa clearly hates him. Which is stupid really, since whatever it was or is between Iwaizumi and Oikawa, it’s got nothing to do with Kyoutani - even if Daisho dragged him into things here, even if people are curious about his relationship with Iwaizumi and see him as some type of replacement. 

 

Maybe Oikawa’s jealous. Maybe he’s also made some kind of assumption about him and Iwaizumi--

 

“I’m not gay,” he blurts out, before his thoughts have even fully formed.

 

Oikawa turns back to look at him. Blinks.

 

Kyoutani scrunches his face up, squeezes the filter of his cigarette between thumb and forefinger while he tries to sort what he wants and means to say in his head.

 

“We’re not - y’know,” he says, still jumbled, with a jerky wave of his hand. Oikawa tilts his head, still staring without a word. not catching the train of thought. “We’re not together,” Kyoutani says, stunted with the effort and how fucking weird it is to have to clarify that. Like they would _ever_ -! “Not like that. ...We’re not _together_ together, is what I mean. Or y’know, at all. In that sense.”

 

A laugh bursts suddenly from Oikawa’s lips, the bright sound disturbing the still evening air between them, as he comprehends what Kyoutani's trying to say. “Yeah, _obviously_.”

 

What the fuck is that supposed to mean? Apparently his expression asks the question for him, because Oikawa rolls his eyes as he slides a hand into his back pocket, cocking his hip.

 

“You’re not his type, pup.”

 

Now Kyoutani is comfortable with both his sexuality and his relationship with Iwaizumi. Perfectly fine with the way things are. But Oikawa stating that so bluntly like it’s not even worth considering for a second offends him a little, so much that he feels an irrational and ugly embarrassed blush bloom on his cheeks and neck. “How can you be so sure?”

 

Oikawa steps away from the car and closer to him. “Because his type is _me_ ,” he says simply, as he steps up past Kyoutani towards the door.

 

The younger cranes his neck to watch the other pass over the threshold, leaving the door open behind him, which Kyoutani chooses to see as an olive branch of sorts. He feels like they’ve made some kind of breakthrough, maybe, so Kyoutani calls after him before he clears the short hallway:

 

“What’s _your_ type?”

 

Oikawa’s soft footsteps falter and he stops for a second. His reply is so quiet Kyoutani almost doesn’t catch it:

 

“It used to be him.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i hope it lived up to the hype!!
> 
> I LOVE YOU ALL, please consider leaving kudos/comments! it really helps to receive feedback and i'd love to know what you think about this installment and about the fic in general (and especially about daisho!)
> 
> also with the next chapter we're going to move into more POVs more often! outside!perspective is great but it can only last so long when i have so many characters doing stuff!! ~~plus we need the iwaoi to happen, right??~~
> 
>  as always you can find me on [tumblr!!](http://verbrennung.tumblr.com/) i'd love to chat about anything!


	3. running from any sight of love

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A visit, a pair of twins*, and a heist!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> don't forget there's a [SPOTIFY PLAYLIST!](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/4z6NEM4nqOCJfb1X1rtZtc) it's recommended you listen as you read (if you're like me and like bgm for reading at least)!  
> there's also a [pinterest board](https://pin.it/4ppqwtsvmvxw3e) if you’re interested in seeing inspiration for aspects of the fic!
> 
> *for anime watchers, [miya atsumu and miya osamu](http://ikiteiruka.tumblr.com/post/178250644271/dont-mind-me-just-posting-this-for-non-manga) are twins from a rival school that appeared in the hq manga (you don't need to know anything else, no spoilerino here or in the link)! they're pretty ooc here but i needed petty bad guys ok???
> 
> lingo needed for this chapter ~~(WOW it's so hard to write pickpocketing/sleight of hand in words!)~~ :  
> Lift - the process of pickpocketing/the steal  
> Cannon - person who performs the lift  
> Mark - victim of theft/target  
> Blocker - the person who distracts the mark during the lift  
> Shades - people stationed near the lift, to whom the cannon hands the stolen goods to get rid of "heat"
> 
> SORRY FOR THE LONG NOTE

 

 

Iwaizumi feels bad about dragging Kyoutani halfway across the country and into this mess with him, of course he does. When they first crossed paths, the plan had just been to help the kid get back on his feet; maybe keep him employed at the auto shop afterwards too, but otherwise not get him involved in all this shit. But Iwaizumi’s just a man, and like all men he’s got an ego.

 

Actually, Iwaizumi can admit he’s got a big fucking ego. And that’s not even a euphemism. He just has this bad habit of thinking he’s the shit that he developed as a teen and has never quite been able to shake, no matter how hard he tries. It made him excited by the prospect of passing on his knowledge to someone else, like some kind of fucked up legacy or something, the same way it had been passed down to him. And yeah, maybe part of it was just to prove he still had it.

 

That, and it’s not like he’s blind to what everyone else sees when they look at Kyoutani. They’re too damn alike. Iwaizumi doesn’t think Kyoutani has ever been a bad kid, no matter what he’s done - more a victim of circumstance than anything. It’s impossible not to see a younger version of himself in Kyoutani; impossible not to feel some sort of responsibility for him. It’s a hard fucking world, Iwaizumi has always known this. Why wouldn’t he share every survival tool at his disposal with a kid who’s had it just as bad as him if not worse?

 

So Iwaizumi warmed to him, kept him around and took him under his wing. It went well, but in the end Kyoutani did end up involved wrapped up with everything. Iwaizumi had figured would catch up with him eventually, but the way the invitation cracked his fragile illusion of piece had been jarring. He should’ve known it’d be Daisho to wreck the tentative peace he’d achieved - he’d long stopped expecting Oikawa to show out of the blue. Wishful thinking is the enemy of practical men, after all.

 

Basically, it’s all Iwaizumi’s fault that Kyoutani’s here at all, and he feels pretty shitty about the whole thing. He’d gotten out of it - not because he didn’t enjoy the life per se, but more because he knew he couldn’t get away with it forever - and he doesn’t want to be back in. Even less, he wants Kyoutani involved. But in true Hajime fashion, his best intentions have fucked everything up and he’s right back here again, except now for the first time ever he’s faced with an Oikawa Tooru that despises him.

 

Oikawa’s dismissal from the night before weighs heavy on his mind - the way his expression had been an acidic parody of a grin as he walked back into their (no - just his, now) living room and said _now get the fuck out of my house._ He’d hated every second Iwaizumi and Kyoutani had been there, it was easy to tell.

 

He can’t dwell on it now, though. Right now he has an important errand to run, one that’s been inevitable since he came back to the city, but one he’s been dreading all the same.

 

It’s strange, having the passenger side of the Monte Carlo empty again after so long sharing the bench seat with Kyoutani, but it’s for the best. Even if one didn’t require prior approval to even show up, Hajime doesn’t want Kyoutani to see any of this. It’s selfish, he knows, to keep so much from the kid even now, but Iwaizumi’s always had trouble sharing vulnerable parts of himself with others outside of the small, three-man circle of people he trusted with his life. Plus, that responsibility he feels for Kyoutani, not to mention the respect the other has for him for whatever reason, leaves him unwilling to look anything other than dependable.

 

The Chevy cruises along the road, passing gates and checkpoints, stopping for the vehicle search and pat-down when instructed. That done, Iwaizumi slides the car into a parking space, kills the engine and climbs out. For the first time today, he lets his eyes linger on the grey behemoth of a building in front of him.

 

The day is dry and hot. The prison blocks out the glaring sun with concrete, corrugated iron and barbed wire, casting it’s far-reaching shadow across the large parking lot. Iwaizumi imagines it stretches far further than that, across the city miles back now; across the whole country even, over a small suburban two-storey house he’s tried his best to call home, and a small auto-shop half a town away from that.

 

Somewhere in this ugly, hulking concrete _cage_ is the man who saved his life.

 

Kyoutani has Iwaizumi; Iwaizumi has Irihata.

 

He says the bare minimum needed to check in and go through the security protocols, stowing his shit away and then following the sad procession of family and friends into the visiting hall. They’re here to put on a brave face until the buzzer sounds and they can finally escape this hellhole, leaving their loved ones behind.

 

Iwaizumi’s only been here a couple of times. He certainly hasn’t missed the creeping sensation of dread and panic that comes over him here - the feeling unique to a man who knows he deserves to be a permanent resident more than a visitor, he's sure. He could so easily be in here himself, one source of the despair he feels permeating the very walls around him.

 

A life like theirs, Irihata had said to Iwaizumi one rainy afternoon, is a ticking time bomb.

 

And that had been a whole decade before the old fool had gotten himself embroiled into a huge con that was doomed to fail. He ended up _here_ and finally proved his own words right. That day, lurking in the back of the courtroom, Iwaizumi realized that karma comes around for everyone eventually - a lesson he promised himself to never forget.

 

One leg is shorter than the others on the table Iwaizumi sits at, leaving it uneven and rickety when he rests his forearms on its disinfected surface. He sits on the uncomfortable plastic chair and tries not to imagine the heavy, restricting weight of shackles around his own wrists and ankles.

 

Soon enough, prisoners start to trickle in - Iwaizumi catches sight of his old mentor as soon as he passes across the threshold. He moves slow, and the limp he’d always had is more pronounced than Iwaizumi ever remembers it. Iwaizumi doesn’t move as the man makes his way over, they just watch each other wordlessly as he shuffles across the room.

 

When Irihata makes it to the other side of the table, Iwaizumi stands. Even at the age he is, a man in his own right, Iwaizumi feels transported back to his teens under the weight of Irihata’s stern, assessing stare. People always thought they were father and son back in the day, and considering his mother’s method of earning money and the fact he never knew his father, Iwaizumi’s always secretly thought it was pretty damn possible. They have the same coloring after all; the same dark eyes and severe eyebrows. Even if he isn’t biologically related, though, Irihata has always been the closest thing to a father Iwaizumi’s ever had.

 

Which is kind of sad, when Iwaizumi thinks about the fact Irihata picked him off the streets and inducted him into a ring of child thieves and pickpockets. Even if it had been in exchange for a roof over his head and food in his belly, Iwaizumi thinks he should probably want for a better parental figure.

 

“You promised me I wouldn’t ever have to see your face here again,” Irihata says, and while it’s as disapproving as ever, his voice holds less of the authoritative weight than it used to. It's kind of hard to put someone in a prison jumpsuit on a pedastal.

 

They shake hands quickly, wary of observing eyes, and then sit down.

 

Hajime takes another moment to observe the man opposite him. Irihata looks _old._ It’s strange: of course he’s always been ‘old’ to Iwaizumi, but this is the first time Iwaizumi has ever looked at him and thought he looks aged. The lines on his forehead and around his mouth are deeper, more pronounced. His dark hair seems a couple shades lighter, graying at his temples. He seems ten times smaller than he used to be. _Prison did this to you_ , Iwaizumi thinks. There’s a good few years left of his sentence, too - prison won’t be done with Irihata until he’s elderly and probably infirm, unable to enjoy freedom once he eventually gets it back.

 

“You used to say promises were the currency of fools,” Iwaizumi reminds him as he settles back into the plastic seat provided.

 

Truth be told, he’d been surprised Irihata hadn’t taken him off his approved visitor list completely. The last time Iwaizumi had stepped in here, years ago now, they'd agreed that he’d never come back. But he supposes they hadn’t parted on bad terms. Far from that, actually - Iwaizumi had always been one of Irihata’s favorites, probably still is. At that time, it was more of a promise to leave the con before it betrayed him just like it had Irihata. It was a promise to be better. To start a new life, to leave the past behind and forget about all of it, including Irihata.

 

And yet here he is, still one of the ten or so friends and acquaintances approved for visitation. But then again - should he be so surprised? Irihata doesn’t really have anyone else. Iwaizumi might have gone his own way at nineteen and taken the other three with him, but they’d always kept in contact. No matter how many starving and freezing streetkids Irihata had sheltered, taught the tricks of the trade to and put to work, Iwaizumi is probably one of only a few who actually give a shit about what happens to him.

 

That’s another aspect of the life that tends to get you eventually - the lack of people you can actually depend on to be there for you when things go wrong.

 

Iwaizumi wonders if the selfish part in Irihata, that selfish part in all humans desperate not to be alone, had hoped Iwaizumi would come back all this time.

 

Or maybe he just knew Iwaizumi wouldn’t be able to keep his promise. After all, he’d also sworn to take Oikawa out of it, as well as ‘those two fools’ Irihata pretended to find irritating but didn’t really. The plan was to stick together but Oikawa had refused, and there was no way he could be left alone with no one to look out for him. So Iwaizumi was the one to go it alone, even if he had to leave behind everything that made him who he was.

 

“I’m disappointed,” Irihata says, and Iwaizumi had expected that, accepts it with resignment of his own. “I wanted better for you. I wanted you out and away from all of this. But even so, I’m pleased to see you, Hajime. Letters aren’t the same.”

 

No kidding. Hunched over a legal pad at the kitchen table left Hajime too self-conscious, over-thinking what he should and shouldn’t say. Truth be told, the life he’d been living a little over a week ago hadn’t been particularly exciting. Through their slow letter exchange, Iwaizumi has kept Irihata up to date on things at the auto shop and his daily life, but he’s always struggled for interesting things to write about.

 

He writes about Kyoutani pretty often. Irihata had written in a reply once that maybe Iwaizumi could finally understand how much of a pain in the ass he’d been back in the day, now that he was the mentor and not the mentee. Hajime had rolled his eyes and snickered.

 

“I know,” Hajime says slowly, hands flat on the surface of the table as one of his knees bounces up and down in a nervous tic beneath. “It wasn’t my choice, though. I got a _special_ invite to a wedding party - Kyoutani, too. Everything’s a fucking mess ever since I crossed back over the city limits.”

 

And who’d want that, to have their lives turned upside down? Iwaizumi wonders what it says about him that even despite all the shit that surrounds everything about his life right now, in a way, this is the best he’s felt in a long while.

 

Some of the lines on Irihata’s face smoothen out in comprehension. “Ah. The Daisho kid.”

 

Hajime tries his hardest to avoid Irihata’s gaze, but eventually he can’t help the instinct and gets pulled into that dark stare. As soon as their eyes meet, Iwaizumi _knows_ that Irihata knows he isn’t just here for the party. Daisho’s wedding was probably common knowledge of the whole city - if he really had only been here for that night, Iwaizumi should, by all accounts, be long gone by now. Everyone knows what time of business Daisho is into (a little bit of everything) and the elder knows exactly what kinds of things Iwaizumi might be needed for. The disapproval is heightened on Irihata’s face and Iwaizumi sighs, resting his elbow on the table and his chin in his hand.

 

“I’d wondered if something was going on,” Irihata continues, hands lax and loosely-curled atop the table like he’s in a casual business meeting rather than in a prison’s visiting hall. “Tooru hasn’t been here this week.”

 

It’s impossible to hide from the man who could almost be credited for raising him - so when Iwaizumi cringes at the mention of Oikawa, Irihata notices. He was going to be brought up eventually of course, but it’s still a sore subject. A lot has changed, but some things haven’t changed at all - Oikawa might hate him now, but he’s still _Oikawa_ , the skinny, mouthy brat Iwaizumi met in an alley and always, _always--_

 

“It’s not like him to miss a week without letting me know somehow. I assume he’s had a lot on his mind,” Irihata says breezily, gaze telling. They both know Iwaizumi being here isn’t something Oikawa would be happy about. “...I suspect Daisho’s got him helping out, too.”

 

The worst thing about it all is that Iwaizumi genuinely doesn’t know whether to be surprised Oikawa has been visiting Irihata this whole time or not. Oikawa had come along a little later than the others, but it hadn’t been long before Irihata treated him the same as all the other kids he’d watched over for far longer. Oikawa had been mistrusting of adults, but seemed to take to Irihata’s stern yet calm instruction, and they developed a fairly good relationship. But still… Iwaizumi had thought that Oikawa would be too busy for weekly visits - he seemed much more enamored with the work than for the people around him.

 

It’s so hard for Hajime to say what’s in character for the other anymore. And that realization hurts. It makes him feel like he’s been orienting himself towards a point on a compass that wasn’t in the direction he thought it was this whole time.

 

He can’t say any of that to Irihata, though. “At least he didn’t tell you I was dead like he told the tailor,” Iwaizumi says blandly to cover up all his thinking.

 

Irihata, as a man more than familiar with the ridiculous (and at times, scathing) dramatics of Oikawa Tooru, just rolls his eyes. He sobers quickly enough however, leaning forward the slightest bit.

 

“That Daisho kid is never up to anything good. You’re looking after him in this, right Hajime?” he asks, calm but still with a current of insistence. Oikawa Tooru has always been more than capable, but Iwaizumi knows better than most that there’s something about him that sparks a person’s protective streak.

 

“I’m trying.”

 

Irihata folds his arms and frowns. “That kid’s good at what he does, there’s no doubt about that,” he says, and Iwaizumi knows where this is going. “But I’ve seen countless guys like him. They take it too far and they mess up, or they trust the wrong person.” Irihata told him something similar the last time. “He’s not careful, not like you. He’ll end up in here, and it’ll be sooner rather than later.” Iwaizumi knows it himself, too. Not for the first time, he wonders if he should have just gone back on his decision back then and stayed. At least then he could've looked after Oikawa. At least then he wouldn’t lay in bed every night worrying about him. At least then they’d go down together.

 

Then suddenly, some voice in the back of his mind asks if he wasn't the wrong person Oikawa had trusted.

 

His hands curl into fists atop the table and clench.

 

Irihata’s stare is a weight on his shoulders; breath on the back of his neck.

 

“No matter what he says to anyone - especially to you - he needs you, Hajime. Always has. Don’t forget that.”

 

Hajime can’t help the way he snorts in disbelief, twisting in his seat enough to rest his forearm along the back of it. “Didn’t need me enough to come with me.” Maybe it had been for the best, though, if Hajime was going to break his heart eventually.

 

“Don’t complain at me, Kid, I don’t want to hear it,” is Irihata’s flat reply. “You two have a connection like I’ve never seen-” Iwaizumi thinks the elder man’s tone might be wistful, or something else that denotes emotion, “-but I think sometimes that means you don’t _talk_ to each other.”

 

Iwaizumi can’t help the stubborn teenager from within surfacing, making him roll his eyes at the other man’s tone. It feels like such a natural reaction.

 

Irihata frowns. “I’d bet my whole commissary account here that you two haven’t talked since you rolled back into town in that ridiculous car,” he declares, and Iwaizumi’s shoulders hunch in of their own accord.

 

“We’ve spoken,” he hedges, but Irihata’s cutting look has him sagging back in his chair. “He won’t _let_ me talk,” he complains finally, letting out the frustration that’s been winding its way around his chest ever since he got here and laid eyes on Oikawa. “Everytime I try, Tooru either bitches me out or leaves the room.” He knows he sounds like a petulant kid but Oikawa just _gets_ at him. Drives him _crazy._

 

“Foolish kids, the both of you,” Irihata mutters, more to himself than to Hajime, who isn’t impressed by the observation but also can’t really argue against it, either. Something about the way Oikawa looks at him now makes Iwaizumi feel like he’s regressed back into that eighteen year old kid who first saw him in the street, who overcompensated for his insecurities and scared, awed interest in the strange boy.

 

Hell, maybe he still is that kid. Irihata still seems to see him that way.

 

“You make him vulnerable, Hajime,” the old man says, weary now. "He doesn't like that." The change in his tone reminds Hajime this isn’t the same old Irihata he’s always known; not quite. This man is older, less forgiving of mistakes and unimpressed at the sight of someone wasting away all the opportunities a free life holds.

 

Iwaizumi allows his eyes to trail down to the sickly-colored jumpsuit that seems to drain all color and life from Irihata’s rough skin, down to the patch on his chest that is his whole identity now.

 

He feels sorry. He feels guilty. He feels _scared._

 

For Irihata. For himself. For Oikawa, Hanamaki and Matsukawa. For _Kentarou._

 

Irihata isn’t done. “You hurt him. But _he_ messed up, too. He hurt himself. You know he hates to let any weakness show, especially in front of others. Have you tried to talk to him alone?”

 

The way Irihata speaks says he knows already what the answer is. Iwaizumi feels sufficiently cowed, and Irihata knows that, too.

 

He smiles a little at Hajime - a peace offering; an acknowledgement that his point has been made. He changes the subject: “Did you bring Kyoutani over here, too? How does he like the city?”

 

Iwaizumi can’t help the slight up-curve of his mouth, leaning forward a little before launching into the story of their visit to the tailor.

 

Irihata leans back in his chair, links his weathered hands over his stomach and laughs and laughs.

 

♠ ♡ ♣ ♢ ♠ ♡ ♣ ♢ ♠ ♡ ♣ ♢ ♠ ♡ ♣ ♢

 

Saturday comes, and Kyoutani tries not to feel too put out by the situation. As they ride the elevator on their way up to the room number Matsukawa gave them earlier, he looks at his reflection in the mirrored walls and frowns. Iwaizumi catches him doing it and laughs, scrubbing a hand over the top of his head, rough fingers doing all they can to mess up the freshly-dyed black strands.

 

“It’s not forever,” Iwaizumi says, not unkindly. Kyoutani just glares at him through their reflection and smacks his hand away.

 

Iwaizumi-san is still snickering to himself as he steps out of the elevator. He might not think it’s a big deal, but Kyoutani feels like half his identity has been lost along with his usual bleach-blond dye job. Like this, he looks virtually the same as he did when he was fifteen years old, and that’s not somewhere he wants to go back to.

 

By the time he catches up to Iwaizumi, the man has already knocked on the door to room 1107. Hanamaki opens up and grins at them before opening the door wider to let them in.

 

Once it’s closed behind them, Hanamaki minces over to invade Kyoutani’s personal space. “Look at that natural black hair,” he coos, reaching out abnormally long arms to try and fuck with his hair. Kyoutani bats his hands away with irritation he doesn’t bother to try and conceal. These _people._

 

Iwaizumi’s already made himself comfortable the single barely-cushioned armchair provided. He _knows_ Kyoutani feels self-conscious, but he just rolls his eyes at Kyoutani’s annoyance.

 

“Bleached hair is too conspicuous,” he says for the umpteeth time in the past couple of days. Kyoutani knows the spiel by now - if the Miya twins, who obviously _hadn’t_ been invited to the wedding, had heard anything about Iwaizumi’s ‘apprentice’, chances are they would have heard about his most remarkable identifier. Despite the fact he isn’t known around town, dyeing his chair was just covering all bases so that he wouldn’t be found out during the lift from Miya Osamu.

 

“Aww, don’t be put out, lil guy,” Hanamaki says with a lecherous grin as he perches on the end of the double bed, crossing one skinny leg over the other. “I’m sure that plenty of ladies would be even more willing to bang you now you don't look _quite_ so wild.” His face melts into blankness as he shrugs. “Not that I would have any idea.”

 

Kyoutani snorts. He’s hardly a woman-whisperer himself - girls and what they want are a complete mystery to him, too. “Must be easier for all of you,” he says, tucking his hands into his pockets and leaning against the wall by the door. Three faces turn to peer at him in curiosity - he supposes he doesn’t often engage in conversation - and he shrugs his shoulders. “You know, since you can understand what guys think and want and stuff.”

 

Iwaizumi’s eyebrows lift and a smirk spreads on his face. His eyes flick over to Hanamaki so Kyoutani follows his gaze, and then suddenly Hanamaki is laughing, linked hands settling over his top most knee.

 

“Us?” he asks, mirth shining in his eyes. He cocks his head over to where Matsukawa is sitting at the desk, taking a break from fiddling with a rather impressive-looking computer set-up to observe the conversation. “Mattsun’s into girls.” Kyoutani feels his surprise take over his features, and he looks from said man’s blank nod back over to Hanamaki. But weren’t they-?  “And I’m not really into anyone,” Hanamaki finishes with a shrug and a lopsided smile.

 

Oh. Kyoutani had just assumed, with the way they were, that it was like Iwaizumi and Oikawa--

 

Hanamaki watches his expression and then laughs in a way that makes Kyoutani think he enjoys his distress greatly. “Not everything’s about fucking, you horndog!”

 

Kyoutani splutters, and he’s just about to blurt out some sort of retort when Iwaizumi shifts, drawing everyone’s attention.

 

“Where’s Oikawa?”

 

It brings the levity back down at the mere mention of him - reminds them all not just of the job at hand, but also that whole other… ugly situation hanging over them. Hanamaki sighs.

 

“Been and gone, friend. He’s got his tech already, he’s waiting elsewhere to ‘make things more natural’.” He says the last few words like he’s dramatically quoting the other, which is probably true. Still, his decision is definitely more to avoid Iwaizumi - that much is perfectly clear to all four men in the room.

 

“More natural?” Kyoutani asks, looking around and looking for elaboration, but the only answer he gets is the stormy frown Iwaizumi points to the carpet.

 

Half standing, half rolling off the bed, Hanamaki picks up a tub from the nightstand and unscrews the lid. He dips his fingers in the content and then swipes it through the front of his prettily-dyed bangs, slicking the hair back on his head. He must catch Kyoutani’s enquiring gaze watching him in the mirror, because once he’s flattened back his whole head of hair, he turns to look at him over his shoulder.

 

“If I’m posing as a staff member with you I gotta disguise myself, too” he says through the devious curl at his lips, picking up a brown wig from somewhere on the floor and pulling it over his head. “I’m staying away from the twins - hopefully - but with my real hair, if they catch even just a glimpse we’re busted.”

 

Kyoutani concedes to that. But still, as Hanamaki straightens up and perfects the way the wig lies on his head, it looks so… alien. Hanamaki looks far too normal with the fake hair color and style. The pink-blond is such a part of Hanamaki’s identity to Kyoutani that he actually feels unsettled to see him looking so mundane. Unaware and apparently satisfied, Hanamaki dips down again to lift something else out of the bag at his feet, holding it up to the light slightly to inspect it.

 

Iwaizumi scoffs. “So what’s the moustache for, then?”

 

“Oh, that’s mostly just for fun. Plus, Mattsun says I wouldn’t look good with a porno ‘stache and I vehemently disagree, so I’m taking this opportunity to settle the debate once and for all."

 

He shuffles closer to the mirror and begins what looks like the very intricate process of applying the ridiculous fake facial hair. Kyoutani loses interest quickly, and when Iwaizumi stands to stroll over to approach Matsukawa, Kyoutani inevitably drifts over too. Matsukawa has dual monitors running, and beyond Hanamaki mumbling to himself, the only sound in the room is the humming of the machine and the clacking of keys as he focuses on the script on the left-hand screen.

 

“Shouldn’t you be in a van or something?” Kyoutani quips, unable to stop himself.

 

Matsukawa snorts. “While that would be easier if shit goes bad and we need to get out fast, the amount of shit you need would make a van far too hot, if you could even fit everything in. Here, I get a comfortable chair and wi-fi.” Finally, Matsukawa drags his heavy-lidded eyes away from the bright screen to flick over to Kyoutani. “Don’t worry, someone else booked this room for us, and even then with a fake name. Gotta have some secret accomplices on a heist, dude.” He hums, and something blinking on his screen recaptures his attention. “Besides, I figure that the Miyas are gonna find out we’re responsible for this at some point anyway, so it doesn’t matter too much if I’ve got to leave some stuff behind as long as we get away with it in the moment.”

 

It’s then that Matsukawa hands them their earpieces and explains their functions. Kyoutani listens as Matsukawa informs them he’s managing all the feeds from his set-up jere - he can monitor them all, but also mute or lower each feed as he needs to, to keep the comms as clear as possible. Apparently, he and Hanamaki had pre-checked the sets and everything’s in order, so Kyoutani just follows suit as Iwaizumi places the small device in his ear.  Truth be told, it all goes over his head a little, but he figures as long as Matsukawa knows what he’s doing, they’ll be fine.

 

Iwaizumi draws Matsukawa into a conversation about the computer side of things, and Kyoutani’s only too happy for the distraction when Hanamaki calls him over. When he turns, he can’t help the burst of laughter that tries to push past his lips at the sight of the other, moustache sitting proudly above his upper lip.

 

“It’s a good look,” Hanamaki maintains petulantly. Kyoutani sends him a shit-eating smirk in reply.

 

Hanamaki reaches out and mimes strangling him for a moment before he reaches down for two garment bags hanging on the door to the ensuite.

 

“Casino employees don’t hang around the hotel,” he says, shoving a bag into Kyoutani’s arms. “We gotta go downstairs to change.” Kyoutani twists his head a little to see Iwaizumi nod in agreement.

 

 

  
They make it to the lobby before there’s a short whine in his ear and then he hears Matsukawa through the earpiece: “When is a door not a door?” Kyoutani can’t help but cast a confused glance to the side, but Hanamaki just grins to himself as they walk along. “When it’s a jar,” he replies breezily. “Coming through loud and clear, babe.”

 

“Dumbass,” comes Iwaizumi’s distant reply and Kyoutani grins.

 

“Seconded,” he offers, since he’s pretty sure this is supposed to be some sort of check, even if Matsukawa and Hanamaki can’t be normal about it.

 

Curiously, Oikawa doesn’t say a word neither does anyone ask him to, even though Kyoutani’s pretty sure he’s also been connected to their little network.

 

As he and Hanamaki track across the hotel lobby’s polished floors, Kyoutani spots someone coming at them from the other direction. The man isn’t looking at them, eyes trained off to the side, but he’s on course to collide with at least Hanamaki if the dumbass doesn’t look up sometime in the next few seconds. He veers the slightest bit when he comes close, but still brushes against Hanamaki as they pass each other. A couple steps later and Hanamaki twists slightly to brandish a key at him, smirking. Kyoutani swears, turning his head to try and spot the man who’d handed it off to him, but he’s already long gone.

 

Hanamaki leads them off to the side, to a storage closet beside the short corridor that connects the hotel to the casino. This is the spot they’d chosen to change in during the planning session at Oikawa’s house, so they slip inside and get to work.

 

Kyoutani strips down to his boxers, turning away slightly as he takes the standard issue black slacks out of the bag and steps into them. When he straightens himself to pull them up, the sounds of rustling from behind him stops. Kyoutani’s blood runs cold at the interest he can suddenly _feel_ emanating from Hanamaki. Stupidly, Kyoutani had put his back in full view, without even thinking. Now he feels the other man’s gaze, imagines it focused on the black ink staining the skin stretched over his shoulder blade like a brand.

 

“Whoa, Kyoutani, is that a tat--”

 

“Are you guys almost done?” It’s Iwaizumi through the earpiece. His tone smooth despite the rather obvious interruption his words are, cutting off that line of conversation before it can even start. He’s probably been ready for it this whole time, Kyoutani realizes. Maybe he should be annoyed at the other’s concern, or at least his meddling, but all Kyoutani can feel is relief for the blatant subject change.

 

As Kyoutani continues getting dressed, he can feel Hanamaki’s gaze assessing his face, though the other man doesn’t say a word.

 

Soon the uniform comes together; Kyoutani and Hanamaki are both dressed in black slacks, a crisp white shirt and a blood-red waistcoat with gaudy satin lapels. The final touches are the fake name badges they have, and a bowtie that Kyoutani is infinitely glad is a clip-on - they might be ‘family’ now, and even if Kyoutani doubts Hanamaki would judge him or mock him (too much, anyway), he doesn’t think he’d be comfortable enough to ask for help the way he had on the day of the wedding party. Hanamaki probably can't even tie a bowtie himself.

 

They check each other over once they're done, and Hanamaki coos and talks shit about how cute Kyoutani looks in uniform, fussing over the lines of his waistcoat like a parent. Distantly, Kyoutani wonders what it is about him that makes people want to mother him when he hates it so fucking much. It's starting to seem like a _thing._

 

Hanamaki doesn’t seem to give a shit about how annoyed Kyoutani may or may not be, pulling out his phone. “Smile!” he demands like a proud mother on prom night, immediately proceeding to take goofy selfies that Kyoutani doesn’t want to be in but has no choice in the matter, thanks to the vice-like arm slung around his neck.

 

“What the hell are you doing?” Matsukawa asks over the comms, and Hanamaki doesn’t stop his poses as he replies.

 

“Depending on how shitty the Miyas are to Iwa, I might post these to Facebook.” He pauses, and Kyoutani sees his frown on the screen of the cellphone for a second before he grins and takes yet another snap, “after the job goes off without a hitch, o’course.”

 

Somewhere else, Iwaizumi snorts in what might be amusement or possibly gratitude for the immature display of loyalty. Kyoutani can’t help it - he smiles. These crazy, dynamic people are Iwaizumi’s _friends_ , and despite everything that’s going on, Kyoutani thinks it’s cool he has the chance to hang out with them again. It’s clear now that Iwaizumi has missed them, having kept everyone other than Kyoutani (and then even him, at times) at arm’s length. The banter Hanamaki and Matsukawa stimulate makes him seem a little more human. A little less of the mysterious guy Kyoutani feels a respect for, and more like a guy Kyoutani could just be friends with.

 

Movement draws Kyoutani out of his thoughts. At some point Hanamaki had pulled away, stowed his phone. Now, he lifts a second, smaller bag he’d brought with him and starts pulling things out.

 

“What’s all that stuff?” Kyoutani had spent most of his life stopping himself from asking questions. With these people, he can’t help himself. It helps that they’re so open to answering them.

 

“What, you think I’m gonna crack a safe with just the power of my mind?” Hanamaki retorts with a roll of his eyes, a long finger tapping his temple in parody. “This stuff’s important, hombre.” He slots the staff keycard he’d gotten days ago in the tiny pocket of his waistcoat. After that, a handful of other stuff gets stuffed into a trouser pocket. Kyoutani looks at a pair of earphones that are dangling out of it in confusion, before Hanamaki’s shoving them in and concealing from sight.

 

The last thing to come out of the bag is a pack of gum, which he wiggles in front of Kyoutani’s face. “This tech is vital,” he declares with a wink, slotting it somewhere inside of his waistcoat.

 

♠ ♡ ♣ ♢ ♠ ♡ ♣ ♢ ♠ ♡ ♣ ♢ ♠ ♡ ♣ ♢

 

The door snicks shut somewhere behind him and alone now, Matsukawa scoots closer to the desk. “Alright, I’m in the system, with access to all camera feeds-” his eyes flicker over to his right-hand monitor just to reconfirm “-Hanamaki, Kyoutani - Iwaizumi’s heading out now. You guys wait in there so you don’t get busted before they get going.”

 

“ _Excuse you_ ,” comes Hanamaki’s voice over the speakers, and Matsukawa can’t help himself from smiling at his tone. “We are _actors._ People are gonna look at us and think ‘yeah, they were born to work in a casino’.”

 

Matsukawa rolls his eyes, but before he can respond, there’s a crackle through the speakers.

 

“Everyone shut up, we need to keep this line clear for actually important communication.” That could only be Hajime. Matsukawa snorts away from his stand mic mic as he clicks open another window. Iwaizumi continues, “walking in now. Where’s Oikawa?”

 

Dutifully, Matsukawa flicks his eyes back to the screen that is mirroring the security camera feeds for the casino. He checks each square, checking for him when Oikawa finally speaks up:

 

“Mattsun, I’m outside.” So still blatantly ignoring Iwaizumi, then. Fucking Tooru. This is some real petty shit, Matsukawa thinks - not for the first time, either. “Let me know when I’m good to go in.

 

“Will do,” Matsukawa answers succinctly, imagining the way Iwaizumi must be frowning at the rude brush-off. He checks the other monitor, where he has access to the script that is responsible for the casino's security. Fascinating, how everything comes down to a string of characters. Matsukawa lives almost his entire life in code. “We’ll be up against the clock the moment I start doing anything other than passively monitoring the system,” he reminds all the men in the network. He can hear Iwaizumi ordering a drink at the bar, but knows he’ll be listening even as he does so. “Makki, Kyoutani, you're up.”

 

“Yessir,” Hanamaki chirps, and Matsukawa watches as they appear on the first camera feed after a few moments, strolling into the casino.

 

They approach Hanamaki’s accomplice Yahaba, the kid that had swiped the card for them to clone earlier in the week, working at the other end of the long bar where Iwaizumi is stationed. They each take a tray of drinks waiting on the counter, complimentary for casino customers. They ignore Iwaizumi as they pass where he’s standing at the top of the steps leading down into the pit of the casino, observing the room. The two of them split off then, and by habit Matsukawa follows Hanamaki on the monitor as he progresses into the belly of the casino, towards the slot machines.

 

“Twins are here together,” Makki mutters through the comms a few minutes later after he’s strolled by them, his face turned pointedly away. “Heading towards you, Iwa.”

 

Mattsun swears under his breath; he'd missed them, distracted. “Both of them?” he asks into the mic, clarifying for Iwaizumi who can’t speak himself when he’s so conspicuously alone.

 

“Mhm,” Makki mutters in brief confirmation, before - “complimentary champagne, sir?” - continuing to work his cover. Matsukawa barely has time to appreciate how in character the other is before his focus returns to the situation at hand.

 

“Oikawa, you’ve gotta get in there to run interference,” he says into the mic. “The timing might be a little fishy, but-”

 

He hears Oikawa take a breath in. “You need a Blocker. I got it,” he answers. It's been a while since Oikawa has Blocked for Iwaizumi. Matsukawa wonders if he's nervous.

 

He brings up the feed that captures Iwaizumi as he straightens up, apparently catching the twins in his sights. With the footage enlarged, Matsukawa can see that he stays cool, drinking from his tumbler and pretending to survey the room. It’s only a matter of time until the twins spot him - Matsukawa knows that as soon as they do they’ll make a beeline for him.

 

Even if Matsukawa hadn’t been around for Iwaizumi and Oikawa’s separation, he’d still receive the message loud and clear that Oikawa’s unhappy about working together with the other. That might even be an understatement - or at least, an unfair over-simplification. Even so, Matsukawa can admit that privately, he’s excited as things set into motion. Not only does it feel good - feel _right_ \- to have Iwaizumi with them again, but Oikawa had always been the perfect Blocker to Iwaizumi’s Cannon. Their talents and skills complemented each other perfectly - Iwaizumi’s steady technique and Oikawa’s natural magnetism and charisma meant that each job went off without a hitch, Iwaizumi performing the Lift and Oikawa distracting the Mark perfectly. Watching them work together was like watching poetry in motion.

 

With Hanamaki and himself as Shades, surveying the area for potential marks and then getting handed the goods to take away from the scene, they made for a perfect set up. Oikawa had filled the gap in their team the instant Iwaizumi had brought him home that one dark, rainy night. Splitting off from Irihata had made perfect sense after a while, since they had all they needed in each other.

 

Iwaizumi had always had balls of steel from all the years he’d had to survive on the street; Hanamaki, too. Matsukawa was smart - he could crunch numbers to quickly work out stats and probability, and then developed knowledge in technology that helped update a very old game to a more sophisticated, modern one. Once Oikawa learned how to play people to the level of a true maestro, they’d graduated from petty pick-pocketing rings to actual cons. It had been amazing. It was just a shame it ended the way it did.

 

“Iwaizumi, I’ve got eyes on. Kyoutani, ditch your drinks ASAP and get ready.” That’s Hanamaki. At least someone’s been focusing - Matsukawa snaps out of it and puts his fingers back to his keyboard.

 

Whatever happens, this is probably going to be a shitshow. He needs his head in the game if he’s going to get all his friends out of this unscathed.

 

♠ ♡ ♣ ♢ ♠ ♡ ♣ ♢ ♠ ♡ ♣ ♢ ♠ ♡ ♣ ♢

 

“Look what the cat dragged in!” one of the twins exclaims, and even if he’d had his eyes closed, Iwaizumi would be able to tell it was Atsumu just from the smug chipperness of his tone. He feels the need for his expression to sour but controls his face, gripping his tumbler a little tighter as the man continues: “We’d heard a rumor you were in town, didn’t we ‘samu? You can hardly believe everything you hear, though.”

 

He’s clearly fucking _delighted_. Iwaizumi absolutely loathes Miya Atsumu.

 

“For Daisho’s wedding, I presume.” Atsumu says the name like it’s poison on his tongue - clearly the bad blood between Daisho and the Miya brothers isn’t one-sided. Still, Iwaizumi has grown unused to someone showing such dislike for Daisho so openly. He guesses Atsumu feels comfortable here in his own domain; it’s not something that would be so freely broadcasted elsewhere in the city.

 

And he’s _still_ fucking speaking. “I’m guessing you saw Tooru there - I was wondering why he’d called me but I guess he wanted to have some fun after all that unpleasantness.” Conspicuously, no one else on the comms makes a comment in response to that, though Iwaizumi thinks he hears what has to be Kyoutani slam a complimentary champagne down on a surface without bothering to ask a customer if they’d even like the drink. Iwaizumi watches as Atsumu’s smirk widens, and when he speaks again, the single word is packed with the heavy weight of pure malice, a weapon designed to do as much damage as possible, like a jagged blade to the stomach: “ _again_.”

 

The few seconds of silence that follow are stifling.

 

“Now, now, ‘tsumu. You can’t poke at a sore spot right after not seeing him for a couple of years. You’ve gotta say something like ‘hey Iwaizumi, long time no see. How are you?’ first.” Osamu, now. Iwaizumi lets his gaze flicker over to the other twin, and feels the hatred within him grow. Son of a bitch. “ _Then_ you can taunt him.”

 

Atsumu tilts his head and makes a show of pretending to consider his brother’s words. “You’re right, ‘samu,” he coos, before his gaze catches on something over Iwaizumi’s shoulder. And Hajime knows _exactly_ what - or who - it is, because even if he didn't know of his arrival in advance, only one thing could inspire the sick, gleeful vindictiveness radiating from Atsumu to increase even more. “Oh, hey - look who’s coming over.” Smugness drips from Atsumu’s tone and Iwaizumi can’t help himself, joining Osamu in swinging his gaze to follow Atsumu’s.

 

Oikawa looks breath-taking.

 

He wears a well-tailored suit like he was born to be in it. It's like a suit of armor - makes him all the more impressive and crucially, seem all the more untouchable. When Oikawa is dressing for _business_ he knows exactly what to do, enhancing his already outstanding good looks and presence. And there’s just something about the way he looks under casino lights that has always made Hajime’s heart beat faster in his chest. Even after all these years, that hasn’t changed.

 

What has changed is that back then, Hajime would have been the first thing those lovely brown eyes sought out. Now he doesn’t even glance his way.

 

Oikawa has, of course, like the rest of them, been listening to the whole conversation, but his acting is flawless when he says, “Miya Atsumu-chan,” in a happy, lilting greeting as if he's pleased to see him. Iwaizumi watches the other man’s performance as he seems to  realize Atsumu isn’t alone, his steps halting for a second as he finally ‘notices’ Iwaizumi standing there too. It’s been so, so long since he’s witnessed Oikawa’s swindling for himself that he finds himself floored by the way he so effortlessly conducts those around him. Iwaizumi almost believed it himself for a second.

 

“What the Hell is this?” Oikawa finally asks, the hostility in his tone not entirely manufactured as he swings furious eyes over from Iwaizumi back to Atsumu. Iwaizumi supposes he's had a lot of practice hating him.

 

“A happy coincidence?” Osamu butts in blithely, and Iwaizumi would _love_ to punch him right in the face.

 

Atsumu steps closer to Oikawa, wrapping a far-from-subtle arm around his waist that Iwaizumi smarts at, especially when the man’s knowing gaze flicks from Oikawa back to Iwaizumi. The curl of his mouth is smug at having made his point and Iwaizumi flexes his free hand behind his back to relieve the crushing desire to drive his fist into something.

 

“We’re just catching up with Iwaizumi here,” Atsumu follows up smoothly. His expression darkens a few shades as he tilts his head, appraising Iwaizumi with open hostility, now. “And wondering what the _fuck_ he’s doing in our casino.”

 

Iwaizumi casts a glance to Oikawa, and then subtly takes a step or two backwards. If either of the twins notice, they’ll probably just think he’s trying to create some distance between him and Oikawa - bad blood and all - which is fine. Perfect, actually. Really, he’s trying to create space between the two twins. Oikawa follows up seamlessly, wrapping his hand around Atsumu’s wrist as if making a possessive demonstration right back. He stays put to keep the gap Iwaizumi is making, which means Atsumu does too, lest he ruin the show he thinks they’re putting on to spite Iwaizumi.

 

Predictably, Osamu gravitates a little closer to Hajime - he’s had nowhere near enough time to piss him off yet, and he won’t be satisfied until he has. Atsumu might be more obvious in his vitriol, but Osamu treats it like an artform. He likes to cast his insults in subtle layers until it builds into an outburt. Iwaizumi has always hated him for it.

 

“As far as I’m aware, I’m not barred from this place,” Iwaizumi says finally, picking the conversation back up to continue the misdirection.

 

Osamu shrugs, as if conceding that point. “Of course not, Hajime-kun,” he says, and Iwaizumi has to force himself not to outwardly bristle. He’s always hated when Osamu uses his given name. “We’re _always_ happy to take your money. After all, we know all of those _special skills_ of yours - a little hard to win without hustling, right?”

 

The problem Iwaizumi has with the twins is that they think they’re so smart. In fact, they think they’re the _shit._ It’s the same fundamental issue he has with Daisho - but at least _he_ has the power and influence to back it up somewhat. The Miya brothers are, like Iwaizumi has said many times before, a pair of guys with a trust fund bigger than they kniw what to do with. Decent business men, sure, but in this city they’re trying to play a game above their skill level.

 

“C’mon, Miya-chan,” Oikawa says smoothly, right on cue, ushering Atsumu to turn with him. “The atmosphere here is bad. Let’s go take a seat somewhere.” Acid drips from his tone, expression glowering with hatred, made all the more jarring by the way he turns in Atsumu’s grip and grins at him, pulling away from his arm and instead grabbing his lapels playfully. He drags him away, murmuring things to keep him distracted from the fact he’s actively being separated from his brother.

 

In accordance with the plan, Osamu can’t pull away from getting at Iwaizumi now he’s found his opening - he’s saying something else to him now, doubtlessly more veiled (or not so veiled) insults, but Matsukawa speaks quietly over the comms, taking Iwaizumi’s attention temporarily: “Kyoutani, now.”

 

Atsumu laughs, glancing back at Iwaizumi and catching his eye before leading Oikawa away, towards where the VIP area is. So far, so good.

 

There’s a pregnant pause as Iwaizumi watches them go, blatantly ignoring Osamu as he does so.

 

“You know, for the first time in a while, I think I’m in agreement with him. The atmosphere here _is_ bad,” he finally says to Osamu, who had started to realize Iwaizumi wasn't listening. He lifts the hand still holding his tumbler and rotates his wrist. “I’m gonna get myself another drink. I’d offer to get you one, but we both know I’d rather blow out my brains than spend any longer than absolutely necessary in your company.”

 

There’s no need for him to torture himself with faux attempts at cilivity now that they’ve split the twins up - his first job is complete. As he turns away, he catches sight of Kyoutani approaching quickly, head down and empty tray tucked under his arm.

 

♠ ♡ ♣ ♢ ♠ ♡ ♣ ♢ ♠ ♡ ♣ ♢ ♠ ♡ ♣ ♢

 

The trajectory the kid’s barrelling along is perfectly calculated, Matsukawa can tell that much. When Osamu steps forward as if to follow Iwaizumi, he steps right into Kyoutani’s path, leaving no other possible result than a clumsy collision that, to those on the ground, couldn’t possibly be Kyoutani’s fault.

 

Matsukawa is impressed. _Son of a bitch_ , he thinks, amused, as he hears Kyoutani make a surprised noise as he ‘loses his balance’. He watches through the grainy camera feed as the kid looks up at Osamu after they crash into each other, stuttering out a “I’m so sorry, sir!” that sounds nothing like his true personality. As he speaks, he seems to use his ‘instinctive’ grip on Osamu to right himself - Matsukawa’s breath is in his throat as he watches, hooked, as under that cover Kyoutani’s hands perfectly imitate a technique Matsukawa has seen Iwaizumi execute countless times. _Holy shit_ , he thinks. _The kid is good._

 

Kyoutani steps away, bowing roughly and apologizing again before hustling away when Osamu waves him out of his sight. The trick, Iwaizumi has told Matsukawa countless times, is to go fast and hard, getting everything done before the Mark has the chance to second-guess a thing.

 

Kyoutani waits until he’s almost at the bar until he risks speaking to the others on the network: “Got it.” He’s a little breathless and obviously endlessly proud of himself.

 

Matsukawa leans back to whistle away from the mic, before swooping back in. “Nice job, Kid.”

 

Iwaizumi’s job is done for now, so Matsukawa lowers the volume of that feed so the others can only distantly hear him chuckling openly at Osamu, making a comment about hiring competent staff to distract him from the strange encounter with Kyoutani, playing the Blocker for his apprentice. Matsukawa pays no attention to it, instead following Kyoutani across multiple camera feeds as he walks to the bar, drops the tray off at the end and then walks away.   

 

Immediately Matsukawa swings his chair around to the other monitor, several dialogue boxes up and covering the screen. His fingers descend on the keyboard, typing with purpose.

 

“Okay, I’m starting. You’re up, ‘hiro.”

 

On the other screen, Hanamaki will be heading over to the bar. Matsukawa knows he’ll slide his hand beneath Kyoutani’s tray as he stacks his own on top, retrieving the card swiped from Osamu the younger man stashed there only moments before.

 

“Iwaizumi, sorry bud, but you gotta keep Osamu busy a little longer,” Matsukawa says into the mic as he starts running the algorithm that’ll try and crack the code for the twins’ office.

 

They're now on the clock.

 

♠ ♡ ♣ ♢ ♠ ♡ ♣ ♢ ♠ ♡ ♣ ♢ ♠ ♡ ♣ ♢

 

“Ready?” Hanamaki asks under his breath, and whilst the question is directed at Matsukawa, Kyoutani uses it as a prompt to get into position, approaching the door where Hanamaki lingers.

 

“Yeah, go ahead,” is Matsukawa’s response, and so Hanamaki swipes the card into the reader, and as it opens into the back of the casino, Kyoutani follows him through, the two of them wordlessly heading to the breakroom.

 

“Sit down and shoot the shit for a sec, I need something to loop,” Matsukawa instructs.

 

Hanamaki flops dramatically onto a chair, waiting for Kyoutani to do the same before he starts talking about monster trucks, of all things. They’re banking on the security team monitoring the footage to be their stereotypical lazy selves, easily fooled by looped footage of this conversation Matsukawa can set up now the program is trying to match the code's hash key in the background. The loop will conceal the truth of Hanamaki and Kyoutani sneaking around in the back corridors - Kyoutani thinks it's _genius_ , even if it does mean he has to spend a couple of minutes listening to Hanamaki chatter on during the most stressful night in his life.

 

Matsukawa gives them the all clear and Hanamaki leaps up, moving as Matsukawa continues to speak: “I’ve got you covered on the cameras, it’s up to you guys not to get busted down there. Oikawa, please tell me you swiped Atsumu’s phone during your little show back there. We gotta get going with that.”

 

A chuckled ‘mhmmm’ trickles through their earpieces, and Kyoutani rolls his eyes at the sound. They all seem to take that for confirmation; Hanamaki waves an impatient hand at Kyoutani and they sneak out of the breakroom, bolstered by Matsukawa’s vigilance through the system.

 

“You know,” Oikawa says, and Kyoutani can hear the sofa he’d been sitting on creaking, as if he’s getting up. “I can’t relax knowing he’s here - I mean, how dare he? He doesn’t even like you guys! He’s got to be here to cause trouble.” Oikawa’s putting on a hell of a show, and even though it’s kind of ridiculous to listen to since Kyoutani knows _exactly_ what Oikawa’s doing, it’s still kind of impressive.

 

He wonders if it isn’t actually a good thing Oikawa still hates Iwaizumi, since his disdain is so completely believable that it barely leaves any room for Miya Atsumu to question his actions.

 

Kyoutani knows the plan well enough to be aware that this is the point Oikawa will head back over to Iwaizumi. By all appearances he’s heading over there unable to resist making a scene, to take another jab at Iwaizumi (which Kyoutani thinks he might actually enjoy), when really it’s all an elaborate opportunity to hand over Atsumu’s stolen cellphone over. With the phone in his possession, Iwaizumi will be free to take it up to Matsukawa.

 

“I was going to let it go,” Oikawa is declaring a few moments later, clearly geared up for the altercation as he reaches back where Iwaizumi is, “but you know what--”

 

Oikawa continues his almost overly-dramatic diatribe, but blessedly Matsukawa does them all a favor and lowers his input so the scathing comments are barely audible. Kyoutani feels his mind clear a little and his concentration return, allowing him to focus back on his and Hanamaki’s role in all this.

 

“You guys should get going to that office,” Matsukawa tells them, and Hanamaki looks like he’s dying to comment on Oikawa’s dramatics, but Kyoutani feels fairly sure he won’t, for all their sakes. Throwing any of them off-track now could be fatal for the job at hand.

 

They sneak through the snaking corridors, stopping to check around every corner - and even then they almost crash into someone, Hanamaki inhaling sharply and shoving Kyoutani into an open storeroom before someone passes by moments later, whistling idly.

 

“That was fucking close,” Hanamaki mutters, before he’s back to crouch-running through the corridors ahead of Kyoutani. They reach a quiet, empty corridor with a single door - a familiar black box nestled into the wall beside it.

 

“We’re here,” Hanamaki says, turning to check on Kyoutani and nodding when they lock eyes. “What’s the progress, Mattsun?”

 

“Any second,” comes the response. There’s something lacking in his usual lazy inflection, Kyoutani thinks. Maybe he’s just concentrating. Or maybe he’s just as tense as the two of them are - after all, anyone could come down here--

 

“Got it,” Iwaizumi’s voice cuts into the tense quiet.  “Along with a whiskey bath, since apparently Tooru can’t resist throwing a fucking drink on me when he gets the chance.” He sounds _pissed_ , and he’s probably only being as snarky as he is because he knows Oikawa can’t reply, too busy with Atsumu, who'd followed him over to watch.

 

Matsukawa is back in their ears: “Got it, ‘hiro. Swipe first then input the code 2-3-8-7. Hajime, bring it up ASAP.”

 

Kyoutani watches as Hanamaki flicks his wrist, the card they’d swiped from Osamu sliding from his sleeve into his waiting palm. He lifts it to the reader and then stops, turning to look at Kyoutani. Kyoutani’s not sure if it’s for reassurance, or to make sure he’s ready, but Kyoutani nods once in response either way. That seems to do the trick - Hanamaki nods back and then swipes the card through the reader with a flourish, entering the number Matsukawa had recited moments earlier.

 

Then there’s silence - an agonising, stretching interval of what can only be a few seconds - and then…

 

A green light, a beep, a click.

 

“We’re in.”

 

And they are. Kyoutani shuffles in after Hanamaki, eyes tracking over the room. There are no cameras the twins’ office - no doubt due to the kind of ‘business’ they get up to behind the scenes of the casino - which is good, because it means no possibility of hard evidence of them taking something from the room. But it’s also really fucking stressful because here, even with Matsukawa’s voice in their ears, it feels like they’re completely alone.

 

“Kyouken, don’t shut the door completely,” Hanamaki orders softly, and Kyoutani’s hand pauses on the door handle, gaze seeking his partner for this task. Hanamaki nods at the open doorway. “Almost, but not all the way. You need to keep watch.” Not that Kyoutani’s really sure what much good it’s going to be if he spots someone at the end of the hallway - if someone gets that close and they’re still here, they’re fucked.

 

He settles for leaning against the frame, facing the midpoint between Hanamaki and the crack in the door. If the other man is gonna crack a fucking safe right in front of him he’s not going to waste his time watching for someone coming towards them when Matsukawa should be keeping an eye on them anyway. Kyoutani’s planning on treating this like a _lesson_.

 

The office is nothing remarkable, just another dingy backroom that's been barely been converted to fit it's purpose beyond the addition of desks, computers and filing cabinets. Shabby old linoleum tiles cover the floor and there's a poster of a busty women tacked to the wall, a pin missing on one of the corners and making the paper curl inward. The computers seem to be switched off and there are papers covering the surfaces of the desks.

 

“Ooh baby,” Hanamaki coos, sounding infinitely pleased and stealing Kyoutani’s full attention.

 

He’s crouched on the floor between the two desks, where the safe sits snugly, more or less the same height as the furniture either side of it. Hanamaki hums a short, jaunty tune and pulls on a pair of latex gloves from his pocket with glee. The safe is large, painted an old, pale navy blue, taller than it is wide.

 

“For those listening to the audio version of this heist,” Hanamaki announces, casting a grin back at Kyoutani before facing the safe again. “We’ve got ourselves a classic dial combo safe. A traditional beauty, if you will. Not an electronic keypad in sight. God bless the Miya brothers for this decision. Amen.”

 

Iwaizumi snorts over the quiet suggestion of elevator music coming from his feed, having apparently escaped from the casino (and the Miyas) with no issue. “Is that a smartass way of saying you actually _can_ crack it?”

 

Hanamaki’s been shuffling through the junk in his pocket, but he stops abruptly at the question.

 

“Hajime-kun, it’s like you don’t know me at all. There ain’t a dial this sweet ass can’t crack. ...Get it - ass, crack?”

 

He doesn’t seem particularly cowed by the lack of response - his attention has yet again been stolen away by the metal contraption in front of him. Kyoutani watches in interest as his gloved hands trace the perimeter of its front face with his palms. “Gotta get a feel for it first,” he tosses back to Kyoutani, as if he can sense his intrigue.

 

Then he rocks back on his haunches, reaching into his waistcoat for something. Kyoutani can’t see from behind, but there’s rustling and then a few moments of quiet. And then--

 

An obnoxious smacking sound as the bubble Hanamaki had apparently blown with his gum pops.

 

Kyoutani’s jaw drops open in astonishment.

 

♠ ♡ ♣ ♢ ♠ ♡ ♣ ♢ ♠ ♡ ♣ ♢ ♠ ♡ ♣ ♢

 

Matsukawa smiles to himself as he keeps his eyes on the undoctored security feeds, watching for any threats to the two men currently holed up in the office.

 

He doesn’t need to be able to see Hanamaki to know every single thing he’s doing - he’s witnessed the routine countless times. From the reverent sweep of his hands around the safe’s perimeter to the stupid fucking gum.

 

Hanamaki can’t crack without it, for some bizarre reason. What’s worse that he can only have citrus flavor, which is widely considered by normal people to be an abomination. It’s the opposite of refreshing and the artificial smell is just so damn _strong._ Matsukawa hates it.

 

“Want some gum, lil neph’?” Matsukawa hears Hanamaki ask Kyoutani over the comms, who from the sounds of things can’t even comprehend he’s being asked that, now of all times. Matsukawa snickers as the kid tells Hanamaki to fuck off and get on with it.

 

“Alright,” Hanamaki’s familiar voice announces. “I’m going dark. Love ya, Issei.”

 

And then there’s rustling as Hanamaki presumably removes his earpiece so he can concentrate on the task at hand. Matsukawa tries not to feel too much trepidation as he kills the other man’s transmission for now, muttering a ‘love you too’ under his breath.

 

“Watch out for him, Kyoutani,” he says quietly, knowing Hanamaki can’t hear him. He’s likely already affixing the attachment that connects the earphones he’d taken with him to the safe, allowing him to hear the minute changes in the locking mechanism behind the dial.

 

Kyoutani’s steady “I will” coincides with Iwaizumi slipping through the hotel room door, and Matsukawa turns and raises a hand in greeting to escape from the earnest moment.

 

Iwaizumi’s face is grave, having listened to the talking across the line. His expression says he knows what Matsukawa is thinking; knows just what it feels like to be worried for another person during a job. And that’s nice, it is, but Matsukawa can only shrug before holding his hand out for the phone. They have a job to do, he can’t let himself worry too much about Takahiro right now.

 

The device sails through the air in an arc, Iwaizumi tossing it over the bed to get it into Matsukawa’s hands as soon as possible, before he rounds the piece of furniture himself to follow straight after. Matsukawa spins back around in his chair so he can connect the phone to the waiting cable and get this going.

 

“Atsumu’s a bit of a dumbass, so I doubt he has any security beyond a standard passcode,” he murmurs for Iwaizumi’s benefit as the man stands at his shoulder, watching him click through dialogue windows on his left monitor to begin running the program that’ll allow them to access the phone’s contents.

 

“Yeah well, the other one’s a _jackass._ ”

 

Not Iwaizumi, surprisingly.

 

Matsukawa and Iwaizumi glance at each other, silent for a second before they both guffaw at Kyoutani’s muttered contribution. Defending his mentor’s honor - _how cute_ , Matsukawa thinks. He’s still smiling as he goes ahead and subverts the security on the phone so they can grab whatever incriminating photos of Daisho Miya Atsumu has.

 

As the program runs, Matsukawa raises the volume on Oikawa’s feed just to check up on him. The first thing that filters through after the change is a throaty chuckle, close and intimate, that could only belong to Miya Atsumu. Matsukawa feels Iwaizumi freeze behind him, and can’t help but slowly turn his head to observe him. Kyoutani’s conspicuously quiet too, presumably having also heard the sound, and suddenly the break in tension his comments had created is long forgotten. Wondering why the fuck he'd even bothered, Matsukawa lowers the volume again. Nothing they need to hear.

 

After what feels like half an age but is really only a couple of seconds, Iwaizumi’s grip on the back of Matsukawa’s chair loosens and he clears his throat.

 

“How’s it going on your end, Kentarou?” he asks brusquely, trying to look busy by dipping his head to squint at the second camera showing all the camera feeds. Matsukawa steadily chooses not to look at him, giving him space.

 

“I have no fucking idea,” Kyoutani says quietly, apparently aware he needs to let Hanamaki concentrate as much as possible, and obviously very involved in the process.

 

It’s then that the program Matsukawa is using to crack the phone’s security code yields its results, unlocking the device and leaving the files stored on it ripe for the taking. Like he’d assumed, there’s no password-encryption for any of the folders and Matsukawa thanks his lucky stars that Miya Atsumu is a cocky little dumbass and _not_ a criminal mastermind.

 

They’re in.

 

“Here we go,” Matsukawa drawls, feeling a little calmer as they progress further through the plan. “What exactly are we looking for?” he asks once he begins scrolling through what appears to be countless photos.

 

Iwaizumi shrugs, planting a hand beside Matsukawa’s keyboard as he leans forward to study the screen. “I’m guessing we’ll know it when we see it?”

 

A clear trend begins to emerge as they progress through the stored data. Atsumu has a whole bunch of photos saved to his phone - not many are innocent. There’s a bunch of pictures taken of and by different women in different states of undress. There's nothing  _untoward_ about them - they all seem to be playful and consensual. The only thing that is a little concerning, or at least uncomfortable, is the sheer amount of them. Matsukawa thinks that if nudes are your thing, that's fine, but keeping every one you've ever taken or received seems a little bit excessive.

 

Of course, Miya Atsumu is known for not discriminating in choosing who he gets his rocks off with, so there’s a few guys, too. It suddenly dawns on Matsukawa that it’s possible he might come across some lewd selfies taken by one of his best friends: even if it's less than some people assume, Oikawa has messed around with Atsumu a couple times in the past few years. It’s not an impossible outcome. Beside him Iwaizumi tenses, apparently also coming to the same conclusion.

 

Neither of them say a word about it.

 

Instead Matsukawa continues to skim through the photos, trying to view the intimate snapshots of beautiful women with a detached, clinical eye to try and find whatever they're looking for. It's an uncomfortable task. He’s a regular, red-blooded heterosexual male after all, and the photos range from cute to provocative to outright explicit. Still, taking any particular kind of interest in them might be even more skeevy than Miya actually keeping this many on his phone, and while Matsukawa might not have _many_ morals, he does have some.

 

There are some normal snaps interspersed in the seemingly countless alluring selfies Atsumu gets sent, which seem to suggest that Miya isn’t a skeevy Lothario _all_ the time. There’s the typical screenshots of random things, a couple unfunny memes and more than a few happy candids of Atsumu, Osamu and a few others in their known social circle. Matsukawa’s just passed by a few of those kinds of photos when they make it back to girls again, bringing his scroll speed back up--

 

“Wait, stop,” Iwaizumi says suddenly as Matsukawa continues to skim through, and he halts his movements immediately.

 

“Go back,” Iwaizumi tells him and he does as requested, backtracking slowly.

 

This time, Matsukawa notices too. He stops.

 

“Holy _shit_ ,” he breathes, looking to Iwaizumi in shock.

 

“What’s going on?” floats Kyoutani’s voice into Matsukawa’s headset, but it takes him a moment to even close his mouth, nevermind formulate a response. “I’ll leave you to enjoy the surprise,” is all he can bring himself to say, continuing his backtrack to count how many photos there are in this particular sequence.

 

Casting his gaze back to Iwaizumi, he sees the man already has his phone to his ear - not that Matsukawa is at all surprised.

 

Iwaizumi is glaring at the floor, clearly still in disbelief. When the call connects, he doesn’t bother with pleasantries.

 

“How many are there? Was it just the one set?” He’s agitated as he waits for and then listens to the response over the line, gaze skittering across the walls but probably not taking anything in. Matsukawa double-checks, confirms there’s only three matching photos grouped together that they’ve come across so far, and waits for the response on the phone.

 

“Ensured-? By _him_?” Iwaizumi asks into the phone, gaze finding Matsukawa’s before he flicks his eyes back to the screen for a second. “Or by _her_?”

 

♠ ♡ ♣ ♢ ♠ ♡ ♣ ♢ ♠ ♡ ♣ ♢ ♠ ♡ ♣ ♢

 

Kyoutani’s switching between obsessively checking through the crack in the door and observing Hanamaki as he works. The man has connected his earphones to the safe with an attachment he’d kept in his pocket, and his expression is almost blank in its intense concentration as he kneels in front of the safe. He’s been turning the dial excruciatingly slow, listening intently to the inner mechanisms. There’s a couple of white numbers drawn onto the safe’s shiny surface as he works, keeping track of the combination as he figures it out.

 

It’s less dynamic than Kyoutani maybe imagined, more quiet with a lot less action. But even so it’s still fucking exciting, not to mention absolutely terrifying.

 

Hanamaki leans forward the slightest bit, a frown coming to his face as his fingers move the dial even more slowly than before. His head cocks to the side, and then--

 

“How’s it going?” Matsukawa asks Kyoutani over the comms, but the definitive clank coming from the safe seems to overpower all other noise before he can respond.

 

The tension leaves Hanamaki’s frame, his shoulders dropping like he’s a puppet with the strings cut.

 

“Fucking _awesome_ \--” Kyoutani breathes as the door is opened, before he remembers himself. “We’re in,” he reports, as Hanamaki turns to him with a huge grin on his face.

 

He hears Matsukawa snort but he’s too busy joining Hanamaki on the floor, peeking into the inside of the safe. They immediately begin to rifle through the contents - there are a couple of stacks of cash that Kyoutani's eyes get hooked on for a second, but the files are what they’re here for.

 

Hanamaki’s long fingers close around a manila folder sat alone on the middle shelf, which he pulls onto his lap and flips open. Inside are a bunch photographs - high quality prints on glossy paper. “Gotta be in here,” Hanamaki mutters, and Kyoutani stops his own searching to watch as he begins to flip through the pile he's gathered into his hands. There's a bunch of what look like surveillance pictures - people in suits talking at dinner tables or around the sides of large buildings. And then:

 

“Oh holy _shit_ ,” Hanamaki crows, so loud that the others can probably pick it up through Kyoutani’s mic.

 

Kyoutani doesn’t say anything for a few loaded seconds, but eventually manages - “ _that’s_ why Daisho has been so fucking extra about this whole thing.” He’s shocked, awed and even a little scandalised.

 

It’s a photograph of a younger Yamaka Mika - Daisho’s _wife_ \- smiling coyly at the camera as she lays on a bed with only twisted satin sheets strewn over her to preserve her modesty. When Hanamaki flips that one over to join the pile of prints that came before it, another is revealed - a damning selfie of her and Atsumu in an embrace atop the same bed, the photo more than enough to suggest they’re both completely naked even if it is cropped an inch or so below the clavicle. In the one that comes after, the final one in the set, they’re locked in a kiss, both smiling.

 

♠ ♡ ♣ ♢ ♠ ♡ ♣ ♢ ♠ ♡ ♣ ♢ ♠ ♡ ♣ ♢

 

Matsukawa doesn’t particularly like Daisho, but on the couple of occasions he’d exchanged a few words with Mika, she’d seemed like a lovely girl. She was sweet, a very cute person with a sweet disposition, who didn't seem to match Daisho at all. He does his very best to keep his gaze _away_ from the photos on the screen as Iwaizumi continues his conversation. It feels so wrong to see her like this.

 

Iwaizumi's still on the phone. “So those are the only ones.”

 

A pause, and then: “If that’s what you’re telling me, then we aren’t responsible for any others that appear elsewhere. No - give me your word on that,” Iwaizumi says, irritated now. He listens intently, nodding when he gets the confirmation he needs and then abruptly hangs up without another word.

 

“Daisho says it’s only the one set,” he tells Matsukawa, coming back up beside him as they both turn to look back at the photo on the screen, the first selfie of Mika and Atsumu together. It’s the one that’s easiest to keep on the monitor.

 

If these were pictures of just any random two people, they could just be sweet, intimate memories between lovers. But on Miya Atsumu’s phone and stored in his safe, depicting him with the now-wife of a prolific city _businessman_ like Daisho Suguru, they become dangerous ammunition. Something to hold over Daisho’s head. It’s blackmail material, plain and simple. Miya Atsumu doesn’t care about Mika. It’s clear as _Hell_ he doesn’t respect her, since he kept the photographs even after all this time. He doesn’t respect any of these people, most likely. Why he’s kept them all is of no real consequence - it doesn’t matter if it’s a power thing, or a sex thing, or both.

 

Now that Atsumu has _told_ Daisho he has these photographs, it ceases to be anything other than this: a two-fold insult to Daisho. It’s evidence that Miya Atsumu has been sexually involved with his beloved wife, and it’s also an attempt to take the power he so covets from his hands by undermining his control on the most intimate aspect of his life. It’s using Mika as _currency_ to raise the stakes, and in the most grotesque way.

 

Matsukawa can sympathize with Mika - clearly those photos had been private, maybe innocent at the time. To have someone she must have trusted enough at one time to take and keep the photos (whether he thinks that was poor judgement on her part or not) then hang them over her head years later, and _use them to blackmail her husband_ , is disgusting.

 

Like Kyoutani had said, it’s really no wonder Daisho had gone to all the effort of getting the five of them to do this job for him. Failure really isn’t an option.

 

But on the other hand, they’ve done all this for some fucking _nudes._ Barely even that, really.

 

Matsukawa deletes each photo with purpose. The comms remain silent.

 

Then Iwaizumi pulls them out of the collective skullfuck that is this revelation, tone succinct and in control as usual: “Kentarou, make sure there are no others in there, just in case.”

 

Matsukawa is impressed that Iwaizumi’s taking this so well - of all people, he’d expect Iwaizumi to be the most angry, considering just how much Daisho has jerked him around for all this. He glances over at the man to check.

 

Iwaizumi pauses for a moment, clearly thinking, before adding to his previous request - “get Makki to check if there’s anything else relating to Daisho in there, and pull that too.”

 

Kyoutani relates that back to Hanamaki in a murmur, and Matsukawa frowns at Iwaizumi.

 

“The job was strictly for the photos. I didn’t think you’d waste time doing Daisho any favors, especially after all this shit.”

 

Iwaizumi wordlessly holds his hand out for Miya’s phone now that the photos have been deleted. His expression is grave when he pockets it.

 

“Anything else we find isn’t for him. It’s for me.” He says, and then he’s striding out of the room.

 

So he _is_ pissed at Daisho, then. Matsukawa smirks at the surfacing of Iwaizumi’s oft-buried vindictive streak as the door snicks shut behind him.

 

“Oikawa’s in Atsumu’s suite on the 35th floor. Room 3502,” he says with amusement over the comms, since Iwaizumi hadn’t thought to ask. He still has no idea to hear what Oikawa is up to, but he flicks the level of Iwaizumi’s feed back up in case Matsukawa needs him later.

 

The final thing they need to worry about is getting the fuck out of here. Matsukawa pulls himself back close to the monitors, closing out the programs he no longer needs and instead focusing on the security camera feeds.

 

“How you doing, kid?” he asks, flicking through the feeds of the casino’s back corridors, finding them clear.

 

“Hanamaki’s just checking for what Iwaizumi-san wanted,” is the report he gets back. There’s some sound in the back, muffled speaking, and then - “and he says can you put him back online, or whatever.”

 

Matsukawa nods, turning Hanamaki’s comms feed back to live, just in time to catch him telling Kyoutani to - “just ruck up your shirt and shove them down the back of your pants, dude. Then re-tuck and you’re good.”

 

It’s a relief to have the other fully contactable again as he continues checking all the camera feeds. Something catches his eye on the casino floor, and Matsukawa swears, zooming in.

 

“Incoming,” he says urgently. “Osamu’s heading towards the back, get out of there.”

 

There’s cursing, the sounds of heavy breathing and rustling punctuated by the sound of the safe door clanging shut. Hanamaki urges Kyoutani with a _‘go, go, go’_ and then Matsukawa catches them slipping out of the office on the nearest security camera.

 

“Stop, stop,” he says quickly when he sees them start to go back the way they came. “He’s already at the door you guys came through.” He and Hanamaki had studied the floorplan of the casino’s back corridors - there’s no way they can slip back into the casino without bumping into Miya Osamu, who’s now striding past the breakroom and down the corridor.

 

Hanamaki knows that too.

 

“Shit,” he curses over their comms. “We’re going loud, boys.”

 

Matsukawa watches on the monitor with his chest constricting as Hanamaki grabs Kyoutani’s wrist and jerks him in a different direction. There’s an emergency exit close by - God bless health and safety regulations - but blowing through it will trip the alarm. If it’s activated.

 

They turn the corner and reach the fire door just as Osamu clears the corner to the corridor they’d _just_ been in. In their hurry, they didn’t shut the door as they left - Osamu must notice, because his footsteps quicken.

 

“Just get the fuck out of there,” Matsukawa urges, already dismantling what he can of his setup. The sound of an alarm blares over their shared network before he disconnects their comms with one savage yank of a cable. He pulls out of the system, slams shut the laptop that was the core of his setup and shoves it into the bag at his feet.

 

Rising to his feet, Matsukawa spins on his heel, eyes tracking over the room to check for anything that might be an outright indicator of their identities. He swipes another bag and fills it with what he can in the few seconds he’s willing to spend on it, then he hightails it out of the room, opting for the abandoned stairwell over the elevator.

 

Hanamaki and Kyoutani are out already; he’ll meet them at the car and they’ll head back to the house. He’s not worried about Oikawa alone with Atsumu - Iwaizumi’s on his way up there. They’ll take care of each other, just like always.

 

♠ ♡ ♣ ♢ ♠ ♡ ♣ ♢ ♠ ♡ ♣ ♢ ♠ ♡ ♣ ♢

 

Iwaizumi listens to all of it happen as he makes his way up the towering height of the hotel to the 35th floor. He arrives at the floor as Hanamaki and Kyoutani flee the office, and stays hidden away in a random nook in the hallway as he tracks their exit intently. He only lets out a breath of relief when the alarm rings out into his earpiece despite the shock, the sound indicating they’re at least out of the building before Matsukawa kills everything and they go dark.

 

He’s on his own now, but he’s fine.

 

He’s had a long, hard fucking day. He cracks his neck and lets himself remember the anger he’s been hoarding all day - Atsumu’s smugness, Osamu’s subtle glee at insulting him, Daisho fucking his whole life over for some risque photographs of his wife. Hajime won’t let himself sympathize with that last one; refuses to put himself in Daisho’s shoes. Being angry at him feels so much better than being understanding.

 

The doors up here are few and far between. Here on the hotel’s higher floors are larger suites - the kinds with big beds, stocked mini bars and large windows offering glistening nighttime views of the city. He stops at the door to suite 3502, looking up at the gold-plated numbers for a moment.

 

Then he slams his fist on the door one, two, three, four times. Feels pretty good to take some anger out on that, actually. He could go for another couple--

 

Miya Atsumu swings the door open, hair mussed and looking supremely bothered at the interruption.

 

Then he notices who it is at his door and his eyes light up, lips curling upwards in cruel delight.

 

Iwaizumi’s fists ball up at his sides at the sight of him. But then again, he’s still dressed - so there’s that. Even if his shirt is rumpled and untucked, the first few buttons undone.

 

“Oh, what do we have here?” he practically purrs, hand still curled around the edge of the door. Hajime says nothing, but that just makes Atsumu smile wider, which is a little infuriating. “This is _gold_ ,” the man continues, rocking onto his back foot and twisting his neck to look back into the suite.

 

“Tooru, I think it’s for you.”

 

 _Tooru_. Iwaizumi flinches, but thankfully it goes unseen.

 

Atsumu pushes the door open a little wider, and Oikawa, thankfully still clad in his stylish suit, appears over his shoulder.

 

The shock on his face is genuine, Iwaizumi can still tell that much. He doesn’t know if Oikawa has been following the comms or if he’d removed his device. Maybe he just ignored it in favor of keeping Atsumu busy. Whichever it is, his confusion remains unsurprising. This hadn’t been part of the plan, after all.

 

The actual plan had been to pay a staff member to slip Oikawa the phone while delivering room service he ordered, not to have Iwaizumi do it himself.

 

To be fair, though, Hajime is here to get Oikawa more than to return the phone. The job is done, mostly. A lot of him just thinks _fuck the consequences_ at this point. He can’t stand this much longer.

 

Oikawa pushes his way into the doorway beside Atsumu, wide brown eyes fixed on Iwaizumi. “What are you doing here?” he tries to demand, but it comes out sounding more of an appeal.

 

Iwaizumi can’t formulate a reply - there’s a red mark on the side of Oikawa’s neck. It’s fresh.

 

He can’t help the jealousy that swells up from the bottom of his stomach all the way around his chest, up his throat until it fills his head, clouding his thoughts. His eyes flicker from that patch of skin, to Oikawa’s wide eyes, to Atsumu, who is watching it all with relish.

 

Oikawa’s hand clasps over his neck at the same moment Atsumu licks his lips, taunting. Even without speaking he’s telling Iwaizumi _I did that_ loud and clear.

 

“We’re kind of in the middle of something, Iwaizumi-kun,” he drawls, sticking the knife in further. “Can you come back later?”

 

Iwaizumi has never murdered anyone before, but in that moment, he thinks he _could_.

 

“Iwa--”

 

He can’t. This is too much. He reaches forward for Oikawa, fingers catching in the pocket of his fitted blazer, and he uses that to tug the other man closer to him, away from Miya. “We’re leaving.”

 

Even through it all, he still has the presence of mind to flick his wrist, feeling the cool plastic exterior of the phone slide from his cuff, over his palm and into Oikawa’s pocket. The other man must feel the added weight, because comprehension dawns in his eyes as he turns a panicked glance to Hajime, face still slack with surprise. Oikawa always did hate going off-script. Iwaizumi, on the other hand, had always been good at improvising, bluffing his way out of something. Until now he's always kept his cool, controlled on the job. This time he feels a hair’s breadth from flying apart.

 

Miya doesn’t take well to Iwaizumi’s move, pushing off the doorframe and reaching to grab Oikawa’s other arm. “Says who? We’re having a _perfectly_ _consensual_ , fun time up here. You’re not invited.”

 

“I’m not kidding,” Hajime insists at Oikawa, ignoring Miya. Oikawa might think it’s all a ploy to return the phone a quicker, more direct way, but Iwaizumi is _serious_ about this _._ “We’re going. Now.”

 

The nastiness Oikawa’s been wearing like a cloak lately seems to catch up with the situation, because he sneers and jerks away from them both.

 

“The both of you are being fucking ridiculous!” he yells, stepping back into the room. “Treating me like some toy you both want just because the other does.” The words are a slap in the face, because _how_ could Oikawa reduce what Iwaizumi feels for him to something so petty and vindictive?

 

Oikawa’s hand slides to his pocket, and even in his very real rage, he sends Iwaizumi a _look._

 

That jolts him into action.

 

“No, that’s all _him_ ,” he argues, turning his attention back to Miya. He can keep him occupied long enough for Oikawa to return the phone to the jacket pocket he’d swiped it from earlier in the evening. Maybe it’s a good thing Miya has shed his blazer already, even if Hajime doesn’t want to think about him removing any more clothing in this room. He makes a show of nodding at Atsumu, their eyes meeting, “this sad sack of shit needs to mess with other people to feel good.”

 

Atsumu’s eyes flash, and as soon as he’s about to lunge right for Iwaizumi, Oikawa’s reeling him back with a hand on his shoulder, done quick with his final task for the job. He’s always been far stronger than he might look - in more ways than one.

 

“That’s enough!”

 

There’s a moment where Oikawa looks between the two other men, and in a heart-stopping moment, Hajime realizes he’s actually trying to decide what to do.

 

As if it was no longer a given that they’d choose each other every time.

 

 _He_ still chooses Oikawa. Every single day that he wakes up alone, every flirtatious comment or attempt to get to know him he eschews, every night he climbs into bed by himself, he chooses Oikawa.

 

Everything is just so _fucked_. So out of control.

 

“We’re going,” he tells Oikawa again, urging him to make the right decision - or making it for him. Maybe it’s cruel; maybe it’s out of line.

 

Oikawa seems to think so, because something behind his eyes shutters; all hints of his thinking disappearing behind a cold barrier.

 

“No.”

 

In his peripheral, Iwaizumi thinks Atsumu might be smirking. He doesn't want to look - can't, probably. His ears are ringing.

 

“Get out, Hajime.”

 

It’s the first time he’s heard his given name from the other man’s mouth in years. He’s spent most nights dreaming of the sound. It’s the exact opposite of how it always felt to hear it. It's heart-breaking.

 

Oikawa’s expression is serious. Iwaizumi knows he means it. They stare at each other, the first lengthy, meaningful slice of eye contact they’ve had since he came back. Oikawa tilts his chin up; Iwaizumi presses his lips together, takes two measured steps back that place him back out into the corridor.

 

He turns his back before he can see any more of either man and makes for the elevator.

 

The door behind him slams shut when he's halfway there, but Iwaizumi doesn’t react until the elevator arrives and he steps inside. The doors shut smoothly and begins its descent. Iwaizumi wraps his hands around the golden handrail to the side, leaning his weight on it and ducking his head as he lets out a breath.

 

_Get out, Hajime._

 

He keeps his grip on the bar, but lets his body sink down to a miserable crouch as he drowns in the sound of rejection.

 

_Get out, Hajime._

 

It feels like he can’t breathe.

 

It feels like he’s the one left behind, this time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hahahahahahahahaha hahahahah ha......... *sweats*
> 
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>     
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	4. i don't wanna be alone

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Oikawa has a revelation, Kyoutani worries and everyone _finally get some answers_. (Only some, though.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> THIS IS NOT THE FINAL PART! Man oh man, I'm so sorry for jerking you guys around - stretching from 3 parts, to 4, and now to 5.  
> Basically, I severely underestimated my ability to stretch out scenes (and my compulsion to add extras). This update is just under the usual length ( at ~13k) so I hope that helps! I know you thought you'd be getting aaaall the answers with this update, but I didn't want to a) rush the ending both time-wise and word count-wise by squishing it into this part and keeping it a "reasonable" length, or b) give you a mammoth chapter that no one would want to read in a single sitting AND that would make you wait twice as long for an update. 
> 
> We do get some answers (a long-awaited flashback, anyone?) though!!
> 
> Don't forget there's a [SPOTIFY PLAYLIST](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/4z6NEM4nqOCJfb1X1rtZtc) if you want help with the mood of scenes/characters/the fic in general!

 

 

He should feel better now. He’s been chomping at the bit to pay back some of the hurt this whole time, after all. Hajime had been a scar over Oikawa’s heart these past few years, ugly and jagged but seemingly healed over - at least, until Oikawa laid eyes on him at the hotel, sat with the other party guests like it was no big deal, and the scar was right back to an open wound, dripping with hurt.

 

It’s been years. _Years._ Coming back under threat from Daisho was one thing, as was being forced to work the job together. Those things couldn’t be helped; were understandable, to a point. But this? Screwing up the plan and storming up here himself to retrieve Oikawa because he was _jealous_? As if he hadn’t been the one to relinquish all claim over Oikawa in the first place?

 

Both men had been insufferable, but it was so much worse coming from Hajime, who should really know better. So Oikawa had wanted to put him in his place. To repay the hurt. To remind him of _exactly_ why they’re in this predicament. He wouldn’t have done it if the other hadn’t acted like he was the one who’d been wronged. Why did Hajime have to be so fucking self-centered?

 

Atsumu slams the door shut and swings back around. Oikawa would prefer if he was pissed off at Hajime, like he is, but the other man is right back to looking like the cat who got the cream. Like he _won_.

 

It makes Tooru feel dirty.

 

“Well, that was--”

 

He can’t stand the sound of the other’s voice right now, _especially_ when it sounds so damn smug, and is quick to cut him off:

 

“Wipe that _disgusting_ look off your face,” Oikawa demands, and Miya’s face falls in confusion.

 

Oikawa has always known this entire thing between them - which is less of a thing and more just a handful of occurrences - has been a fucked up ego thing for Atsumu. He knows that. It’s also been a very obvious get-back-at-Hajime thing, for the both of them. And that had been fine - they were both getting something out of it, using it as a twisted way to feel _better_. Until today, when it became clear exactly just how little Atsumu cared about him, when Oikawa had previously thought they might be something close to (not quite, but close to) friends.

 

Oikawa won’t be used as pawn. He won’t be used by anyone at all - that much he promised to himself years ago.

 

“You think I’m going to spend another minute in your nauseating presence after _that_?” he asks, feeling the shock of his situation totally recede to leave behind a much more familiar emotion - anger. It spreads up his spine and across his shoulders like a warm blanket. “Did you enjoy it, using me like a prop in your little game to piss him off?”

 

Miya’s blank expression twists into a sneer.

 

“Oh, come on, we _both_ enjoyed that,” he insists, and Oikawa’s stomach roils. No, he didn’t enjoy it. Not a single bit. He thought he would - that it would make him feel better maybe, but he doesn’t think anything could. Miya cocks his head to the side, planting his hands on his hips. “What’s got you so worked up?”

 

Oikawa stares at him.

 

“What?” Atsumu asks, harassed, as he moves deeper into the suite so he can grab something from the mini bar. “Your feelings are hurt? Remember who _really_ fucked you over, Tooru.”

 

He’s always hated the way Miya says his name.

 

“This was always just sex. I don’t need to defend your honor or whatever. I’ve never owed you anything.”

 

Tooru knows that already. It’s not like he loves Miya, or has any feelings for him at all. If he’s being honest, he barely even likes him as a person. Before tonight, this was a mutually-beneficial arrangement between them - supposedly, at least. Even if it was and is undeniably toxic. Earlier this evening, it had been an in for the job, an advantage they could hardly refuse if they wanted to be successful.

 

Whatever it’s been, it’s _always_ made him feel awful. Made him feel unclean; like a terrible person. Oikawa realizes that he should have never jumped into bed with Miya Atsumu, because it had _always_ been for the wrong reasons.

 

Tooru’s heart constricts. Realization drops into the pit of his stomach like a stone.

 

Despite everything, he should have gone with him.

 

It’s not the first time the thought has dawned on him.

 

 _He should have gone with him_.

 

But he didn’t. And he’s _still_ here. Why?

 

“You owed me the effort to at least try to be a decent fucking person, Atsumu.”

 

He thinks about what the others found on the phone; in the safe. He thinks about the way he’s seen the Miya brothers treat countless people, and the way Atsumu spoke to Iwaizumi earlier. The way he’s speaking to Tooru right now, and the way that even though it had been a two-way street, he’s used Tooru before.

 

“Clearly that’s impossible for you.”

 

There’s absolutely nothing keeping him here; he doesn’t need to stay. His fingertips are touching the door handle before he even realizes he’s moved.

 

Miya snorts from his perch back of the lush sofa parked in front of the window. His light hair is tousled, the first few buttons of his shirt undone, his legs crossed at the ankles. Backlit by the lights of the strip below and beyond the glass panes, he looks devastatingly handsome as he takes a pull straight from the small bottle of whiskey in his hand. Oikawa can admit he finds him attractive, but there’s not much else redeeming about Miya Atsumu - he looks completely unfazed by everything that’s happening. He doesn’t care about anyone or anything but himself, except for maybe his carbon copy downstairs.

 

Oikawa looks at him, and feels absolutely nothing. And being mad at someone, _hating them_ , is at least better than feeling nothing at all. _He should have gone with him._

 

“You’re really trying to take the high road right now, Tooru? You’re the one that just helped me put that look on his face.” He smirks behind the neck of the bottle, like he _knows_ Tooru hurt himself doing that. Like it’s funny to him.

 

Oikawa feels a cold, dangerous calm flood through him and he goes completely still, only his face turned towards the other.

 

He’s such an idiot. Hajime really always did have a flawless judge of character, and he’d disliked the brothers on first _sight._

 

Atsumu’s phone begins to buzz on the coffee table, and Oikawa turns his head to look at it, expression all haughty nonchalance. He has a good idea who that’s going to be.

 

“Daisho sends his regards,” he says coolly before Atsumu can do anything to answer the call, taking absolute pleasure in the way his expression wavers, only beginning to parse out what that might mean. Oikawa allows himself to smirk.

 

“And by that, I mean he says ‘fuck you’. And so do I.”

 

And then he leaves, slamming the door shut behind him and getting the fuck out of there.

  
  


♠ ♡ ♣ ♢ ♠ ♡ ♣ ♢ ♠ ♡ ♣ ♢ ♠ ♡ ♣ ♢

  
  


Running down streets with Hanamaki laughing, meeting Matsukawa at the car and the entire ride back is all a frenetic blur to Kyoutani, a high he can’t ever recall reaching before in his life. As they practically fall through the front door and into the foyer of Oikawa’s house, Kyoutani thinks he might understand all of them even more. Especially Iwaizumi.

 

This shit’s better than drugs, that’s for sure.

 

They stumble into the living room, and only then do he and Hanamaki ruck their shirts up, reaching back to pull out the folders they’d shoved down the back of their slacks to keep them safe and hidden from view. They slap against the low wooden coffee table at almost the same time, and then it’s so easy for Kyoutani to let himself collapse back into the huge sofa that’s behind him.

 

He watches as Hanamaki almost skips across the living room and towards the sliding door that leads to the rest of the house. Just before he disappears through it, he yanks his wig off and throws it back towards the other two with a flourish.

 

Snorting as the hairpiece sails through the air and crashes soundlessly to the floor, Kyoutani turns his gaze to Matsukawa, who’s stashing his bags behind the other sofa.

 

“What d’we do with those?” he asks as the man climbs over the back of the couch to plop down onto its cushions, apparently unwilling to expend the effort needed to walk around it.

 

Matsukawa glances up at him, and Kyoutani nods to the folder he’d smuggled out, the one that contains the photos of Daisho Mika. Shouldn’t they destroy them as soon as possible?

 

“Proof of the job,” Matsukawa explains easily, eyes lingering on the folder for a second too long before he snatches up the TV remote and switches it on. “Daisho will want evidence that we really got them before we get paid. Plus, he’ll want to destroy them himself, get a sense of control back or whatever it is that gets his dick hard.”

 

“Huh.” That actually makes perfect sense - Daisho’s definitely the type to want to do that type of shit himself.

 

The adrenaline is starting to work its way out of his body; the rush intense but fleeting. It makes his body feel loose but heavy, and he slumps further into the plush cushions, rolling his neck a little so he can join Matsukawa in listlessly watching whatever show happens to be airing.

 

Hanamaki comes back in after a while. His familiar pink strands are freshly washed, still dripping in places and in complete disarray, like he scrubbed a towel over his head for a few seconds and then called it a day. His pale skin is dotted with blooms of pink in places, presumably from the heat from the shower. There’s another conspicuous red patch over his top lip.

 

“Definitely didn’t work,” Matsukawa says after a minute of so of silence, not even bothering to drag his lidded gaze from the mounted TV screen. Kyoutani snorts a laugh in reaction, and Hanamaki looks over at him and grins after collapsing beside Matsukawa, like he’s happy Kyoutani is there and enjoying himself. Kyoutani scoffs and turns his head away, ignoring the warmth he feels radiating from within.

 

Then they all focus back on the show, which is really just the shopping channel, and wait for the others.

  


After another half an hour or so, Kyoutani starts to get antsy. He doesn’t want to say anything - he’s aware that he’s the rookie, that he’s always asking dumb questions that have straightforward answers, but… shouldn’t Iwaizumi be here by now? Oikawa too?

 

Shouldn’t they at least have _heard_ from them?

 

Matsukawa rocks forward all of a sudden a minute or two later, and the other two swing their gazes towards him.

 

“I’m calling Iwa,” he announces as he pulls out his phone, and Kyoutani is torn between being relieved he doesn’t need to ask them about it after all, and being concerned that he apparently isn’t the only one who’s worried.

 

Far too soon to be anything good, Matsukawa pulls the device from his ear to frown at the screen.

 

“Still switched off,” he says, and though it should just be a simple report of information, Kyoutani _knows_ that Matsukawa thinks that’s isn’t a good sign.

 

So he sits up too, scooting to the edge of the sofa and resting his hands on his knees, looking between the two more experienced men.

 

Hanamaki’s been curled up on his own cushion, but he half crawls, half drags himself closer to Matsukawa, bringing his knees to his chest as he settles against his side, as if just being close will make them both feel better.

 

“We can’t do anything,” he says, and the way his eyes flick to meet Kyoutani’s tells him that this is for his benefit. Apparently they’ve graduated to answering his questions before he needs to ask them, which is strangely comfortable. “We’ve got the photos. If the two of them have been been made, there’s no proof of their involvement. And we need to make sure _they,_ ” a long finger is lifted and pointed to the folder still on the tabletop, “get to Daisho. Job ain’t over until they do.”

 

This doesn’t sit well with Kentarou - Iwaizumi-san would _never_ leave him behind, of that he’s completely sure. They stick together. It’s how they work, and Kyoutani can’t let him down.

 

Just as he’s about to argue, leap up from his seat, do _something_ , there’s a distant beep from the security panel just outside the doorway into the living room, and then they hear it.

 

The unmistakable rumble of the Monte Carlo’s engine as the car pulls up the driveway.

 

This time, the three of them are in sync as they leap up, but they all stop and linger awkwardly where they stand. Regardless of what _certain people_ might think, Kyoutani isn’t actually Iwaizumi’s puppy. Or his damn kid. There’s no one rushing to greet Iwaizumi at the door, even if they kind of want to.

 

Across the room and down the short hallway, the door opens. There’s no conversation (or arguing), just the sound of the door closing and footsteps until Iwaizumi appears at the doorway. Alone.

 

His tie is loose but the knot of it is pulled tight, like it’s been hastily jerked away from his neck. The first button at his collar is undone, too. His face is unreadable - the kind of blank that makes Kyoutani nervous - and the man stops where he is, eyes gliding over each of them one-by-one, assessing, ending on Kyoutani.

 

Kyoutani doesn’t know why, but he turns to face him fully on instinct, even taking a step forward as Iwaizumi makes for him. He just feels so fucking _relieved_ that the other is there, seemingly fine, and fuck - he’d been so worried.

 

Iwaizumi catches him with a hand on the back of his neck, and pulls him forward roughly so that Kyoutani has nowhere to go but into him, his face pressed into the other man’s broad shoulder. His own sag in relief, and he feels Iwaizumi let out an exhale as his hand slips up slightly to rub slightly at the short, coarse hairs at the back of Kyoutani’s head, fingers spread wide, the pads pressing into his scalp.

 

“I’m so proud of you,” Iwaizumi-san says steadily, and there’s no way the words could be a lie. Kyoutani can’t even begin to encapsulate what that means to him. He’s never felt like this before - elated, relieved, fucking _proud of himself_. “That Lift was beautiful. You did perfect.”

 

Iwaizumi takes a step back, and his hand finds its way press at the top of Kyoutani’s head, reassuring but also commanding, now. His flint gaze pierces Kyoutani’s.

 

“But we are _never_ doing that again. Do you hear me?”

 

Kyoutani doesn’t know how he knows that ‘we’ actually means _just him_ , but he does. Iwaizumi has made that promise about himself before and broken it, and Kyoutani isn’t sure that he could ever stick to those words. This is Iwaizumi trying to protect him as always. He’s thinking it’s too late for himself, but not for Kyoutani.

 

He wants to promise, but he can’t say it out loud. It’d be too much of a lie that way, so instead he just nods. In reality, he knows he’d do anything Iwaizumi needed him to, even if that meant breaking a promise to him, just like Iwaizumi had broken his own vow to protect the two of them from the consequences of refusing Daisho.

 

His response seems to satisfy Iwaizumi though, because he nods once back and then pulls away.

 

Before he has a chance to do or say anything else, Matsukawa’s voice cuts across the room, a measure of forced calm trying to cover up the concern that bleeds through anyway when he asks, very deliberately, “where’s Oikawa?”

 

Flint eyes slide over to Matsukawa, saying everything and nothing at all. Iwaizumi doesn’t speak or otherwise acknowledge the question, he just moves to sit down on the sofa, reaching into his inner breast pocket to pull out his box of Lucky Strikes.

 

The room is silent as he flicks open his zippo with a _snick_ and lights up.

 

The other three watch as he takes the first long, deep drag of his cigarette, and Kyoutani’s eyes follow the first grey wisps of smoke as they curl up into the clear air of the house. He turns to look at Matsukawa and Hanamaki, who look just as concerned as he feels.

 

This is not the kind of home you’re allowed to smoke inside of, that much is blatantly obvious. It’s also very clear that Iwaizumi does not give a fuck.

 

It’s Hanamaki that moves first, turning to look at Matsukawa’s increasingly worried expression, cupping the man’s neck and leaning in close to murmur reassurances in his ear. Kyoutani looks away, even more unsure about what their relationship actually _is_ , but knowing neither that nor the tender moment between them is any of his business. Matsukawa nods at whatever is said, and when Hanamaki pulls away to head to the kitchen he moves slowly, sitting down on the couch opposite Iwaizumi.

 

Kyoutani lingers where he is, unsure what to do or where to go.

 

Bizarrely, when Hanamaki returns, it’s with a small dish that he places by the discarded pack of cigarettes on the coffee table, presumably to be used as an ashtray. Then he sits by Matsukawa, close enough that their thighs are pressed together. He meets Kyoutani’s eyes and jerks his head in a command, so Kyoutani carefully steps back across the plush rug to sit at the end of Iwaizumi’s sofa, wary of the sheer intensity of whatever emotion his mentor is radiating right now.

 

“Well,” Hanamaki says, “at least we pulled off the job!” Even _he_ misses levity by fucking miles, the false cheer in his tone falling flat in the oppressive atmosphere of the room. No one even appreciates the attempt.

  


♠ ♡ ♣ ♢ ♠ ♡ ♣ ♢ ♠ ♡ ♣ ♢ ♠ ♡ ♣ ♢

  
  


Iwaizumi can’t bring himself to say or do a damn thing. After leaving the hotel, he’d headed straight to the Chevy, legs numb but somehow getting him there anyway. He’d been running on autopilot when he started up the engine and pulled out of the shady parking lot he’d left the car in. His head had been so full and so empty at the same time - he’d just driven around the city mindlessly for a measureless stretch of time until he found himself on his way back to the house.

 

He knows the others are worried. He knows they’re tense. He knows that all of the tension in the room is because of him. But if he makes a single sound, the tentative hold he has on himself will slip through his fingers like the smoke suspended in lazy curls above his head. He feels like a hair trigger waiting for that slightest nudge to go off.

 

The others must know what Oikawa’s absence means; must know that he’s been rejected again.

 

The silence stretches on for another torturous few minutes; the smoke fills his lungs and dries out his mouth and eyes. And then suddenly the alarm system beeps to announce the gate is opening. A minute or so later, the door at the side of the house opens.

 

His head snaps up, his two fingers squeezing the filter of his cigarette from above and below. Shuffling in the entranceway. There’s only one person it could be.

 

Oikawa doesn’t look at any of them when he finally emerges, peeling off his suit jacket and hanging it on the back of a dining chair. The buttons at the collar of his shirt have been refastened, his hair neatened up.

 

“Do you know how long it takes to get an Uber in this damn city?” He asks, apparently going for his snotty personality.

 

All of a sudden Hajime feels like he’s boiling beneath his skin, not bothering to say a thing before he’s leaping up and grabbing Tooru’s arm to drag him across the room. It’s the first time they’ve had proper, physical contact since Tooru punched him and then went on to deliver a blow to his ego that he couldn’t ignore, when he rose to the bait and stole his watch like the petty dick he is. Not that he’s really able to think about any of that right now.

 

Tooru fights him, tugging against the hold and spluttering protests, but goes along with him anyway, through the door that leads deeper into the house and then again through the second door on the right.

 

It’s their old fucking bedroom, _shit_ , and Iwaizumi doesn’t know if that was subconscious on his part or if the universe is just punishing him for being a colossal _asshole_. Either way, shutting the door for privacy before getting into it is so far from his mind when he rounds on the other.

 

“Fucking Miya Atsumu, _really?_ ” he asks, voice already on its way to a yell.

 

Of all fucking people - he still can’t believe it. It had been possible to ignore it before tonight, before the evidence was right _there_ for him to see but _fuck_. And alright, he and Oikawa aren’t together; Tooru hates him; Iwaizumi hasn’t even been here. Going _there_ while he hadn’t been around is one thing - Hajime doesn’t _like it_ , but maybe he could _deal_ \- but tonight?

 

“And you’re gonna flaunt that shit right in front of my face?”

 

Because that’s the real clincher.

 

Tooru’s face is already going blotchy and pink. He’s never much liked confrontation, mostly because he finds it hard to control strong emotions during real arguments and hates it when people shout. “It was for the _job_!”

 

Distantly, Hajime knows whatever was between Oikawa and Miya Atsumu had been perfect for the job; the ideal set up. But the show tonight hadn’t been just for the job at all. What happened at the door to Atsumu’s suite is the elephant in the room, but even the amount of touching down in the casino had been a little heavy.

 

“ _Bullshit._ There’s a difference between doing something to get a job done and milking it to get at me, and you know it.”

 

Not even just that, though. Tooru had been so ready to use that particular advantage, had offered it up during their planning session. Clearly he’d been planning to use it against Iwaizumi - and he had. Oikawa  made his decision back in that hotel room: he’d chosen Atsumu, and dealt the maximum damage he possibly could to Iwaizumi by doing so. But now he’s back here so quickly, looking like nothing even happened? Because Hajime _knows_ what Tooru looks like, how he holds himself after-

 

So he didn’t even fucking choose Atsumu. He just hadn’t chosen Iwaizumi in the cruellest possible fucking way.

 

He can’t believe Tooru would go this far to get at him. Sure, there’s hurt on both sides - he _knows_ he hurt Tooru, thinks the other’s hatred of him is valid even - but only to a fucking extent. Hajime had been hurt too, and not once this _whole time_ has he gone out of his way to drive the knife into Oikawa the way the other has for him.

 

Everyone seems to forget that Iwaizumi had been fucking abandoned back then, too.

 

“So what, was this whole thing just a good opportunity to get some payback? Make me feel like shit?” He doesn’t know why he’s bothering, honestly. It’s not like Tooru’s going to own up to being so fucking petty and callous.

 

Tooru’s wide brown eyes sharpen; Iwaizumi watches as he switches from defensive to attack.

 

“This is _not_ about you. Not _everything_ is about you, Hajime!” God, the way he spits his name with such disdain _hurts_. “And what do I owe you, huh? Why are you acting like I’ve betrayed _you_? What do you know about loyalty?”

 

Really? They’re going _there_? “What do I know about--?!” Iwaizumi takes a heavy, angry step towards him. “I’ve been devoted to you since I was eighteen fucking years old!”

 

Oikawa bursts out a loud, horrible laugh. It feels like an accusation. “We didn’t even get together until my twentieth birthday,” he says, like Hajime is an idiot. Like by getting that wrong he’s proved it means nothing to him at all.

 

He just returns the disdainful look with a pointed stare of his own, leaning close and panting through this intense, burning anger that only Oikawa can make him feel. “And if you think I wasn’t in head over heels for you from the moment we met then you’re not as smart as I thought. Why else would I put my ass on the line with Irihata to bring you in? I risked everything to get your ass off the streets and save your life, Tooru!”

 

It’s the first time he’s said the name out loud to him in years. He wishes it hadn’t been used to prove a point in such a poisonous conversation.

 

The flush on Tooru’s cheeks and neck intensifies as it moves from anger more towards embarrassment at having lost that particular point. It’s fucking crazy, how Hajime can still read him so fucking well sometimes. Oikawa seems to concede, curling the hand dangling at his side into a fist before relaxing it again. Hajime watches him inhale, exhale.

 

“This whole fucking thing is nuts,” Iwaizumi says, more quietly this time, defeated. It’s just too much, coming back here, seeing all these people, getting forced into getting involved in all this shit again.

 

There’s a moment of heavy silence, and then he sees Oikawa square his shoulders out of the corner of his eye. Apparently he’s remembered why he’s angry after Iwaizumi’s emotional sideswipe.

 

“What did you think was going to happen when you stormed up there and demanded I leave with you like a jealous husband?” Hajime flinches. “You’re pissed off that I refused? What I choose to do and who I choose to do it with is none of your business anymore!”

 

Oikawa is forcing his voice to stay calm, though it’s clearly a struggle as an angry waver rebelliously breaks through at the end of it.

 

“You made sure of that when you turned your back on me. On all of us.”

 

Hajime clenches his own fists, feeling the familiar burn of frustration and bitterness well up inside of him. He takes a breath, ready to hit back with something sharp and hurtful of his own. Oikawa thinks he’s a bastard and for a second he’s determined to prove him right just for the Hell of it - and then he shakes his head.

 

“- No, I won’t,” he says, stepping back, lifting his hands in the air before one of them turns to savagely points at Oikawa in accusation. “I _won’t_ let you pin this all on me when you fucking _know_ I didn’t want to do this shit anymore! I wanted out of this fucking life, I wanted to not worry about taking the wrong job, or making a mistake, or ending up fucking rotting in prison just like Irihata! I wanted that for me, I wanted that for you, I wanted that for Issei and Takahiro too! I wanted that for _us,_ ” he stresses, remembering all too well the night years ago when he made these exact same pleas. The memory is a festering wound. “Don’t act like I fucking abandoned you when I _begged you to come with me!_ ”

 

Because of course that’s the part Tooru has chosen to forget because he _always_ needs someone else to blame.

 

Said man visibly clenches his jaw, jutting his chin out in defiance as he crosses his arms in front of his chest. It looks less of a dominant stance and more like a man trying to protect himself, give himself comfort. Hajime _hates_ that even after all these years, he doesn’t hate Oikawa _at all._

 

When Oikawa speaks, his voice is grave, attempting something close to steady. “I couldn’t do that.”

 

Iwaizumi sneers. “Yeah, because you loved the fucking money. You couldn’t get _enough_. I guess that had always been your first love, huh?” The inherently hurt _and not me_ goes unsaid but he’s sure it’s heard anyway.

 

“Yeah, I love having money. I love having nice things and I love going to expensive parties,” Tooru agrees, his tone at once poison and ice. His face twists into something nasty, a clear indicator he doesn’t enjoy the accusations flung his way. “Getting thrown out of your family home and left to survive on the streets however you can is enough to make a person appreciate that sort of thing. But how dare you act like it isn’t obvious I loved you more than all of that stuff? You _know_ I did!”

 

 _Did._ It hits Hajime like a physical blow.

 

“If that’s true, then why didn’t you--”

 

Oikawa is quick to cut him off: “Because I _couldn’t!_ Do you think I wanted to do this stupid fucking job with the man who broke my heart? You think I wanted to be in a situation like this at all? You think I wanted to do half of the jobs I’ve pulled in the last three years? Hardly. But I _couldn’t_ refuse.”

 

Iwaizumi stares at him, trying to comprehend. He’s missing something, he knows he is. His eyes work over every point of Oikawa’s face, trying to catch something he can’t _see._

 

“Sometimes,” Oikawa continues, voice quiet but intent, his brown eyes burning. “We are bound by things other than love.”

 

Silence.

 

Oikawa doesn’t add anything else. Iwaizumi breathes, his whole body moving with the effort.

 

The distance between them seems to stretch even further, too far for him to cross, and then something clicks in Hajime’s mind and that gap snaps back to reality. Oikawa isn’t out of reach; he’s right here in front of him. They’re having the conversation that they’ve always needed to have, the one Irihata urged Iwaizumi to pursue. And even after all the things they’ve said, they’re _still_ having it, because neither of them has left yet.

 

There’s nothing keeping Oikawa here, not physically. Just like Iwaizumi, he’s here because in some way, he _wants_ to be.

 

Oikawa _wants_ to be with him.

  


Iwaizumi rears back. He replays Oikawa’s words in his head.

  


_[I_ **_couldn’t_** _.]_

 

 _[Sometimes we are bound by things_ **_other_ ** _than love.]_

 

His mind jumps to other things:

 

Receiving the invitation from Daisho, who’d always disliked him, who only ever invited him to nice events because of Oikawa.

 

The same man’s words from earlier in the week: _you have the chance to clear a debt, here. To get a second chance._

  
Holy shit. _A_ debt, he’d said, not _your_ debt _._ Hajime isn’t here for himself.

 

It really _is_ true - not everything is about him. In fact, he should have seen it sooner. Because for Hajime, everything has always been and will always be about _Oikawa._

 

Iwaizumi can’t fucking believe it. Rage - not directed at Tooru, now - and incredulity rock at his mental foundations, disrupting everything he thought he knew. He lets out a short, ugly laugh, twisting away for a second with his hands on his hips, because this is un-fucking-believable. His mind is _blown_. It’s the feeling of seeing everything you thought you knew crumble before your eyes and slowly rebuild into the real picture. Pieces that never quite fit together properly rearrange and suddenly make _complete sense._

 

He whirls back around to face Oikawa.

 

“Daisho,” he breathes, testing out his theory.

 

Oikawa’s face, like always, tells him everything he needs to know.

 

“What does he have on you?”

 

At the question, every defensive layer remaining is stripped from Tooru’s face, leaving him bare and open and vulnerable. All that’s left there is shame, and his shoulders slump and his body curves in on itself under the weight of it. It makes Iwaizumi’s stomach plummet. Everything is becoming clear to him, and the image presented to him makes him sick with worry and dread.

 

It’s almost impossible to be mad at him now.

 

“Tooru,” he says, tone softer now but taut with begging, “what the fuck does he have on you?”

 

“I can’t tell you,” Oikawa answers, voice unsteady with barely restrained emotion.

 

Hajime’s heart _aches._ “You can tell me anyth--”

 

“I can’t!” Oikawa snaps, and when he looks up at him with fierce, watery eyes, Hajime is transported to ten years ago, facing a young Tooru who was hurt and fragile but so, so angry and defensive. A Tooru who had no hope and nowhere to go. Hajime had looked into those lovely, sad eyes and resolved to give him both, along with anything else he could ever need.

 

He tries to fight Hajime off when he steps towards him, but Iwaizumi just grips his forearms securely, dipping to try and meet his eyes. It’s something bad, that much is obvious, but Tooru should know there’s nothing - _nothing_ \- he can tell Iwaizumi that would change how he feels about him. He should have known that _before_.

 

God, why didn’t he tell him _sooner?_

 

“You can always tell me _anything_ ,” Hajime tells Tooru fiercely, finally able to meet his panicked gaze, hoping he’s projecting calm despite the fact he feels anything but.

 

They could have fixed whatever it is, bargained with Daisho already. They could have done it together years ago. They could have avoided the whole miserable interlude of their lives.

 

Oikawa goes to reply, but his gaze catches on something over Iwaizumi’s shoulder. He turns to look too, surprised at the sight of the other three in the doorway, apparently done with letting them argue it out alone. Kyoutani looks confused but poised for a fight, not quite sure what’s going on but ready to step in if he needs to, which is unsurprising and so, so like him. Hanamaki and Matsukawa look stricken, and Iwaizumi doesn’t doubt now that they’ve heard virtually every word.

 

It’s clear by their faces and the way they look at Tooru now that they hadn’t known the full story either, which is sad but not particularly surprising. If Tooru hadn’t been able to tell Hajime it’s unlikely he would have told them, after all.

 

Still, the fact they’d stuck with him and still been kept in the dark has got to hurt - the two of them had been straddling the line of legality for years, halfway to going straight already by the time Iwaizumi had started getting nervous, so they hadn’t been opposed to the idea of skipping town. But when it became clear Oikawa wasn’t all in, Iwaizumi asked them to stay instead. Iwaizumi could handle being alone if it came down to it, but Oikawa… He was so loved by all of them. There was no way any of them would stand for him being alone again.

 

Iwaizumi thought he was protecting him from that in asking Hanamaki and Matsukawa to stay with him.  But apparently in those years since, they hadn’t grown any closer than him in finding out why he’d chosen to stay when he had supposedly loved Iwaizumi above all else. Whatever this is all about, Oikawa had kept it to himself the whole time. Even with everything, he’s still been just as alone as Hajime.

 

Oikawa looks at the two of them across the room like he’s horrified to have put such expressions on their faces. Iwaizumi knows know that the last thing Tooru ever wants is to let them down; at the sight of his terror at being found out, Hajime tightens his hold on Oikawa. He’ll do all he can to keep him close this time; keep him from slipping away from him again.

 

“Hanamaki, Matsukawa. Take Kyoutani with you and head out for a little while, would you? I’ll call you later,” he utters loud enough for them to hear, not looking away from Oikawa.

 

“As _if_ Hajime, this concerns us, too-” is Hanamaki’s immediate argument, but before Iwaizumi can respond, Matsukawa interrupts with a soft “Takahiro, let’s go. We’ll catch up with them later.”

 

He’s sorry to exclude them, but he knows that whatever it is that Tooru has to say, he can’t say it in front of them just yet. He thinks that Matsukawa - and Hanamaki eventually, too - knows that the two of them need this. Have needed this.

 

It’s only after the shuffling moves from the doorway towards the front door of the house that Oikawa turns his stunned gaze back to Hajime. They stare at each other like that until they hear the muffled sounds of a car engine starting up outside.

 

Oikawa takes a stuttering breath in, pulling away from Hajime and turning to wipe at his eyes. Hajime watches his back and waits. Oikawa takes a few more breaths and then wraps his arms around his stomach, still turned away from him like he can’t bear to look or be looked at.

 

“Before you left,” he begins, and the waver in his voice has Iwaizumi resisting the need to step forward to comfort him. Of course there’d been a reason. _Of course._ “Something happened -”

 

Iwaizumi can’t help but interrupt. “With Daisho.”

 

Tooru huffs, half-turns to look at him. “He was there,” he elaborates, but his tone says there’s more to the story. “But it wasn’t him.” He takes a shuddering breath, “his father -” Oikawa falters, and Iwaizumi’s breath catches in his throat.

 

Daisho’s father had been a piece of fucking work, infinitely worse than his son. Daisho is an asshole, and ruthless to boot, but his father had been a _maniac._ Sadistic. Tyrannical, even. Everyone knew of his reputation, and if you knew what was good for you, you avoided him at all costs. Iwaizumi hadn’t been at all sorry to hear he’d died around the time Irihata got handed his hefty prison sentence.

 

Thinking about it, nobody seemed to really know what happened. It isn’t unusual for influential men in the mob to meet a nasty end, or even to disappear never to be heard from again. It _is_ unusual however, for a man at the very top to fall. Especially for there to be a lack of reliable rumours in their world that would more or less confirm who was responsible for it - notoriety is an important weapon in the underbelly, after all. There had been a strong notion among most people that Daisho had probably done it since he’d clearly had the most to gain, though that had never gotten anywhere close to being verified. That hasn’t changed - it’s why Daisho still sits luxuriating on the throne instead of sharing a mailing address with Irihata. Either that or he didn’t do it.

 

Iwaizumi’s blood runs cold.

 

“Tooru--” he begins urgently, but the other cuts him off with a gesture of his hand.

 

“I got a call from Daisho-sama, personally,” he continues, voice wobbling with old fear and guilt. “A summons to go up to the house.”

 

Iwaizumi might have said that the young Daisho was not a man to refuse a couple of weeks ago, but that was even more true for his father. He’d had plenty of men at his disposal to do his dirty work for him, a privilege that by all accounts he wielded often, so Iwaizumi can hardly imagine what would warrant a personal call. Certainly unusual, especially for someone like Tooru, who had no real connection to him whatsoever. Regardless, defying that order was simply not an option.

 

“He wanted me to go alone; I wasn’t to tell anyone.”

 

Iwaizumi runs a hand through his hair, trying to stave off the thick dread swarming his heart. He can’t imagine where this is going; doesn’t _want_ to imagine.

 

He watches as Oikawa takes a couple of steps back so that he can sink down to sit on the bed behind him. Hajime so badly wants to go over there, but he can’t. Instead, he steps back, giving Oikawa space and leaning against the wall instead. This isn’t going to be a very pleasant story.

 

Oikawa takes a breath in, lets it out, and begins.

 

“So I went up there--”

  


♠ ♡ ♣ ♢ ♠ ♡ ♣ ♢ ♠ ♡ ♣ ♢ ♠ ♡ ♣ ♢

**THREE AND A HALF YEARS AGO**

  


Tooru’s on high alert as soon as he pulls up the long, snaking driveway and spots the distinct lack of cars parked in front of the house. Well, truthfully, all of this has felt _off_ from the moment he received the call from a blocked number, revealed to be Daisho-sama - the father of the Daisho he’s more familiar with.

 

A personal summons with strict instructions to come alone? It’s nothing good. Unfortunately, it’s also something he can’t refuse.

 

He wishes he’d told Hajime about it despite the instructions not to, so someone would at least know where he is. But his love has other things on his mind right now. Word is that Irihata had gotten charged with a felony after his recent arrest, and Hajime can act as nonchalant as he likes but Tooru knows he’s worried. He can’t make the burden on his shoulders any heavier right now.

 

The house is quiet. Oikawa’s only been here a feq times, for ostentatious parties Dai-chan had invited them to - part in gratitude for _favors_ they’d completed for him, and part to flaunt his wealth at Iwa-chan and piss him off. Other than that, Suguru doesn’t really seem to be here that often, and Oikawa isn’t really surprised that the man refers to stay busy with his hotel, attending parties and events elsewhere in the city center - the house is without a doubt his father’s domain.

 

It’s clearly less of a home and more of an HQ - there’s a small army of staff in attendance during the day, he knows, and more often that not a bunch of guests in the evening.

 

Today, there’s not a single soul in sight, and Oikawa has to wait for more than a few tension-laden moments for the door to open once he presses the doorbell. No staff at home - really? It’s early in the afternoon, hardly time for housekeepers and whatever else to leave for the day. There should at least be some of Daisho-sama’s suited employees around the place and yet, it feels like a ghost town.

 

A breeze sweeps through the grounds, brushing over and between the limp, hanging branches of the large willow tree behind Oikawa, sending the leaves whispering into the previously-silent air. The soft sound chills him to the bone and only adds to the unease creeping over him.

 

This isn’t right.

 

Things get even stranger when the door opens and it’s Suguru on the other side.

 

He’s as immaculate as ever, wearing a crisp suit tailored to perfection, his hair parted and smooth. Oikawa can appreciate a man who cares about his appearance, puts effort into it. On that at least, he and Daisho share common ground. He can’t help the relief at seeing at least a semi-friendly face here.

 

One look at his face however, and Oikawa’s unease grows, transforming into something much more insistent. They don’t say a word but exchange wary looks. Oikawa has no idea what’s going on, and it’s quite clear that the other man doesn’t, either. Suguru shuts the door behind them once Oikawa’s inside.

 

He jerks his head over his shoulder, a silent cue to follow, and it’s not like Tooru has any choice in the matter. When he turns and begins to walk, Oikawa realizes he’s heading for the stairs. He’s never been up there before - the second floor holds the bedrooms and perhaps most importantly, the office belonging to the man of the house - Daisho’s father. It’s always blocked off during parties; people who aren’t _Family_ (in the business sense) aren’t usually permitted to ascend the grand mahogany staircase at all.

 

In front of him, Suguru plants a shiny shoe on the bottom step, and then hesitates. He turns to Oikawa, his face unreadable, before he turns back around and continues his ascent. Without conscious thought, Oikawa casts one last, longing glance at the large front door behind him before he follows dutifully behind.

 

He wishes Hajime was here.

 

At the top of the stairs, they head through the large wooden double doors and into Daisho patriarch’s office. As Suguru moves to the side to close the doors behind them, Oikawa is able to take in the room at long last.

 

The walls are a sophisticated dark green, though the ones to Oikawa’s left and right are barely visible, lined as they are with tall mahogany bookcases filled with books, all bound in various shades of dark leather. The wall at the back of the room houses a tall double window, and the early afternoon light streaming in through the glass panes illuminates Daisho Yoshinori from behind. The silhouette of him sat at his large desk is all the more imposing for it.

 

But Oikawa’s met a bunch of intimidating men throughout his life. The key is to not let them feel your fear. He takes a breath in, sets his shoulders, and takes a few steps forward, moving deeper into the room.

 

Suguru shuts the doors softly and then moves past Oikawa once again, though this time he doesn’t stop until he’s rounded the corner of the desk to stand at his father’s left shoulder - though of course a step behind his chair in clear deference to him. He looks at Oikawa once he’s positioned there, but his face gives nothing away. It doesn’t feel reassuring at all. Yoshinori clears his throat, and Oikawa’s attention snaps to him.

 

“Daisho-sama,” he says calmly, dipping into a respectful bow as he addresses the elder man with confidence. Bluffing comes easy to him these days.

 

Now that his eyes are beginning to adjust, Oikawa can really look at the man who summoned him here. He’s a couple of decades beyond middle-aged, and although his face is somewhat weathered, it still boasts distinct features. That being said, he has none of the sharp elegance his son carries at his eyes and nose - his features are strong and stout. His skin is darker, his shoulders far broader. In fact, the only things the young Daisho seems to have inherited from his father are the color of his hair and his cold, appraising stare. Though Oikawa has to admit, it’s a lot more unnerving coming from the elder’s deep-set eyes, the color of his irises so light they remind him of glass.

 

“So _you’re_ Oikawa Tooru, hm?”

 

Tooru can’t help but balk a little at that, though he does his best to repress any outward reaction. So Daisho Yoshinori didn’t actually know him before now? He isn’t sure if that’s a good sign or not. He doesn’t dare flick his gaze over to Dai-chan, not wanting to look weak or like he needs reassurance.

 

He’s not entirely sure he’d get it anyway.

 

He and Daisho get along fine. Oikawa would say they’re friends - thinks they are, at least - but the other man doesn’t really seem like the type to have those. Or to acknowledge it, at least. Daisho likes him though, Oikawa knows. At the very least, he respects him. They don’t hang out much outside of business or coincidence, but they’ll engage in amusing banter or chit-chat when it happens. Oikawa has his personal cell number - a fact which Hajime hates. Daisho’s approached him and the others to do him a couple of favors in the past, which at least shows he trusts them to get jobs done. But even so, Daisho isn’t going to hold his hand through this, that’s for sure.

 

“I’m sure you’re wondering why you’re here, Oikawa-kun,” the patriarch continues, and Oikawa allows his focus to hone back in. Down to the meat of things already, then. The older man’s tone is light, but Tooru knows when someone’s putting on an act; he’s far from feeling reassured by the easy way he brings up the elephant in the room, as if it’s inconsequential. Even less so when he hears what comes next:

 

“I want you to do something for me.”

 

That’s not good. Daisho Yoshinori’s business does not particularly coincide well with Oikawa’s.

 

Out of the corner of his eye, Oikawa can see Dai-chan shift, and imagines his eyes slide to the side and down to look at his father himself.

 

There’s a soft creaking as the elder Daisho settles back in his leather wingback chair, leaning to the side furthest from his son, his elbow atop the armrest. He looks plenty relaxed; almost bored.

 

“I have an… associate I’m not best pleased with as of late,” the man explains in a slow drawl that has no real business sounding as menacing as it does. Oikawa’s heart drops to his stomach - he doesn’t like where this is going. “I believe he has kept something that _should_ belong to me for himself. And I would like it returned to me as soon as possible.”

 

Oikawa can’t fathom why _anyone_ would try and screw this man over. He’s heard stories about people who have _displeased_ Daisho Yoshinori, and it never ends well. Outright betrayal seems a little more than ill-advised. He swallows.

 

“With all due respect, Sir,” he begins after nothing else is said for a few moments, and watches the way the older man waves his free hand as if to say _go on_. “I’m not exactly sure why you’d want me, specifically. Retrieval,” which is a polite way for saying _theft_ for men who enjoy the rush of talking around crime, “is not exactly my forte.”

 

A smile displaces the severe line of Yoshinori’s mouth, curling his thin lips upwards and filling Oikawa with something too close to dread.

 

“I’m aware,” the man allows, and Oikawa stamps down the urge to shift in discomfort under that stare, hard and cold as diamond. “I know all about your _expertise._ From what I hear, you’re somewhat close with my son, here - though not _too_ close, I hope.”

 

It’s impossible not to catch what _that_ could mean, and Oikawa feels his jaw tighten.

 

“Not that Suguru would be interested, of course. ...But this associate of mine, on the other hand, has certain … tastes, we’ll say. Tastes that will make it easier for an objectively handsome young man like yourself to get him alone.”

 

Oikawa’s brain goes into overtime to figure out exactly what he means by that (he already knows, it’s _obvious,_ but there’s some primal part of himself stopping him from acknowledging it), when he’s saved the trouble:

 

“Tastes I believe somewhat overlap with your own, Oikawa-kun.”

 

Tooru’s jaw clenches of its own volition, and he can feel his stomach turn over, the phantom burn of acidic bile in the back of his throat.

 

So what, because he’s _gay_ he’s suddenly the go-to person to seduce some old criminal who happens to be into young boys? He’s pretty sure there’s no way he’s mistaken in his assumption - not if the way Daisho senior seems to relish his reaction.

 

Oikawa can’t help it - his eyes flick over to Daisho helplessly before he regains control and snaps his gaze back over to the businessman in front of him.

 

“With all due respect, Daisho-sama,” he starts, hating that his voice has begun to waver. “I can’t--”

 

He can’t. He really can’t. He’s not a _whore_ \- he promised himself he would never touch someone else for any other reason than just wanting to ever again. Hajime had promised he’d never have to, either, eighteen and sopping wet from rain, boring his eyes into Oikawa’s in the shabbiest downtown apartment ever.

 

That’s another reason.

 

Hajime.

 

There’s not a world where he’d ever want anyone else; he’s in a happy, committed relationship with the person he loves. Or is the fact that it’s with another man mean that’s not worth a damn thing to the person asking this of him? He doesn’t think he’s going to get far with this line of argument, though, so he scrambles to think of another reason--

 

“I’m really not the person to get whatever it is back for you, Sir. I’m more what you would call a conman than a thief--”

 

Yoshinori raises his free hand again, the movement by all appearances slow and idle, but it kills all sound coming from Oikawa’s mouth. The way the golden signet ring on his pinky finger flashes in the afternoon sunlight coming through the windows is chilling.

 

“With all due respect to _you_ , Oikawa-kun,” and the way the man says the words tells Tooru that’s really not a lot at all, “I’m not asking for your opinion. Nor am I _asking_ you to do it, either.”

 

What? Oikawa glances to the side, but it’s a very ineffective balm to see that Daisho Suguru looks just as shocked as he is, where he stands slightly behind his father’s chair.

 

“You see, this is a very sensitive issue. Surely you’ve noticed the lack of extra people around to see you here?”

 

Of course he has. He _knew_ this was all wrong. He couldn’t have ever guessed it would be _this_ bad, though. He’s going to throw up right here on Daisho Yoshinori’s priceless Egyptian rug. It feels like the rest of the world is narrowing down to just this, like there’s a spotlight over his head, centering on this exact moment.

 

Even fucking up a job or being a hair’s breadth from being made, Oikawa has never felt this degree of complete and utter _panic_ before. This is fight or flight.

 

This feels like life or death.

 

“I can’t have my intentions getting out even less than I can have you screwing up this job, Oikawa-kun.”

 

Oikawa is numb.

 

“So, it’s like this. Either you agree to do the job and keep your mouth shut about it,” his hand waves through the air like he hardly thinks he’s asking anything of Oikawa, “or my boy takes care of you and you don’t leave this room at all.”

 

Tooru snaps his head to the side to look at Daisho, who meets his panicked gaze with a wide eyes of his own.

 

“Don’t look to him for help,” Yoshinori drawls, examining his nails and not even deigning to glance back for his son’s reaction to all of this. “He knows his place.”

 

He sounds so sure of himself.

 

Apparently for good reason, because at those words Daisho composes himself and reaches his hand into his jacket to pull out a pistol. Like his father’s ring, the gun catches the sunlight as he raises it into the air, sliding over the smooth barrel and glancing off the polished golden accents. Oikawa’s seen a lot of shit in his life, but he’s never actually seen a gun get pulled before.

 

 _Holy shit_ , Tooru thinks. _I’m going to die._ He’s going to die here and no one is going to know what’s happened to him. And inevitably, one thing in particular comes to mind - _Hajime_.

 

He’ll be all alone. They won’t get to say goodbye. And the worst part of it all is that Iwaizumi will blame himself. He’d promised Tooru he’d always protect him, that nothing would happen to him as long as he was there. But he’s not here, and he won’t know a damn thing about this at all, because Oikawa didn’t tell him.

 

Fuck. He’s let him down.

 

It’s this that Daisho Yoshinori decides is worth watching, finally turning his head in his son’s direction. Oikawa watches along with him, horrified and entranced, as Daisho steps around the chair and forward, his arm and the pistol in his hand cutting through the air as he brings them around, stopping when it’s pointing in his direction.

 

Yoshinori lifts himself out of his seat, dragging his hand along the smooth surface of his desk as he steps around it. When he reaches the front of the imposing piece of furniture, he perches on the edge of it and crosses his arms.

 

“I don’t understand your unwillingness, truth be told. From what I gather from my sources, it’s not like this type of thing is something you’ve never done before.” That’s just humiliating him on top of threatening him, exposing his less than respectable past. Oikawa averts his eyes from Suguru, as surprise flickers back onto the man’s face - it’s not a well known fact, and for good reason.

 

God dammit, he was just a _kid._ A kid that had needed to survive. It’s not like he’d even done it for very long; and if he had, who the fuck cares? He turns his indignant gaze back to the elder man, eyes burning.

 

There isn’t a shred of mercy in the steady gaze Yoshinori returns the eye contact with, asking a calm “what’ll it be, Oikawa-kun?”

 

There’s no energy left in him to be afraid. This bastard’s going to _kill_ him. It might not be his arm pointing the gun at him, but he’s going to be the one responsible for it.

 

Because even under threat, Tooru can’t do it.

 

It’s the strangest thing. Suddenly, he feels completely calm.

 

“I will not ask again.”

 

His head is clear. It’s a hard choice, but his decision comes frighteningly easy.

 

He won’t cast aside his pride. He won’t turn away from the morals he’s chosen to live by - they’re imperfect, he’s still a damn criminal after all, but they’re the guidelines he’s set for himself.  Some things he just won’t do.

 

Hajime can learn to live without him, eventually. Oikawa would rather die than compromise who he is, what he and Iwaizumi have. He can’t whore himself out for this monster and then look Hajime in the eye afterwards. He won’t fucking do it.

 

“Fine.” At last there’s the smallest trickle of emotion in the older man’s voice, even if it is just annoyance. “Understand this is just business. Do it, Suguru.”

 

Oikawa flicks his eyes from the hypnotising point of the gun over to meet Daisho’s, who’s already watching him. He tries to convey what he’s thinking - that it’s not his fault. Oikawa’s disappointed, but he doesn’t blame the other man. This is an impossible situation, and Oikawa’s not that important to him.

 

It’s as if the world has switched to slow-motion when Daisho’s index finger lifts from the pistol’s grip to rest on the trigger.

 

Oikawa doesn’t hear the bang so much as register the aftermath of it, the way the room feels full in the seconds immediately after the explosion of noise and how his ears ring in the sudden return to silence.

 

His eyes are wide and his body seizes up, then erupts into violent shakes. He can’t even make himself blink. He tears his gaze from the spot it had blankly drifted to so he can look down at himself, bemused. He doesn’t feel any pain, just the tight grip of shock over his whole body; he brings his hands up and they tremble uncontrollably. There’s something wet on his face, he feels a droplet slide down from his cheekbone towards his jaw.

 

He turns his head, feeling like he’s no longer in his own body, to seek out Suguru.

 

Who isn’t looking at Tooru. Instead, his gaze is turned the crumpled form of his father, writhing on the floor in front of his desk. The gun hanging limply at his side.

 

“Just business, old man,” Daisho mutters into the clogged silence, as Oikawa’s eyes transfix on _red._

 

Blood everywhere. It’s sickly blooms are staining the crisp white of Daisho Yoshinori’s shirt. It spreads across and clogs the fibres of the expensive rug he’s collapsed on as the elder man chokes on it, coughs more of it up to add to the mess. Before anyone can speak, Daisho lifts the gun again.

 

Another bang. Daisho’s expression doesn’t so much as waver. Oikawa can’t look away, even after Daisho Yoshinori stops gasping wetly, or moving at all.

 

And then there’s a slim torso blocking his view.

 

“-awa. _Tooru_ ,” Daisho’s voice filters back in, and the next thing Oikawa knows, his jaw is seized in a tight grip and jerked upwards so that his eyes fall on the other man’s face, his intense features. “Tooru, look at me.” He is. He’s looking at him.

 

Daisho just killed a man.

 

Daisho just shot _his own father_ , right in front of him.

 

“ _Concentrate,_ ” Daisho snaps at him, the word quick and urgent in its insistence.

 

Oikawa forces himself to blink, to focus back in on Daisho’s sharp eyes.

 

Daisho just killed the man who wanted him dead.

 

Daisho just _saved his life._

 

“I’ll handle it,” Daisho is saying now. His tone has the strangest quality to it… Comforting, almost. His gun gets stashed back into the halter that must be under his jacket, his hand exchanging it for a stark white handkerchief he produces from an inner pocket.

 

Oikawa’s jaw gets taken in his hand again, but it’s gentle this time as Daisho uses the grip to slowly tilt his face to the side. He uses the handkerchief to wipe the blood off Tooru’s face in the softest, most bizarre display of compassion, then calmly tucks the stained fabric back into his pocket.

 

“I’ll handle it, I’ll handle everything. Go home and never tell anyone you were here.”

 

 _Why_ , Tooru wants to ask, but he can’t get the necessary parts of himself to work to do it. His mouth is as numb as the rest of him; it clumsily tries to make the right shapes to form the words but fails. He’s not entirely sure what it is he’s trying to say or ask, anyway. Daisho’s dark eyes boring into him are the only thing keeping him grounded, and even then it’s barely working.

 

“It’s fine,” Daisho says. “Don’t mention anything about today to anyone, I mean it. I’m going to take care of it.”

 

But - _why?_

 

The other man snarls, giving Oikawa’s shoulders a hard shove that shatters the numbness that had made a home in his body. “ _Get the fuck out of here, Oikawa,”_ he orders, eyes daring him not to obey.

 

So he does what he’s told and leaves.

  


Hours later he’s sitting in the house, skin recovering from the endless minutes he’d spent scrubbing himself raw in the shower. He hears the rumble of the Monte Carlo as Iwaizumi pulls up the driveway and parks under the carport, and his heart cracks.

 

Iwaizumi shuffles through the doorway, throwing his car keys into the bowl on the side table without looking away from the phone in his hand. He’s still waiting to hear about Irihata’s court date; Oikawa thinks he’s helping with the lawyer.

 

Oikawa scoots to the edge of the couch, curling his hands in his lap to hide the way they shake still and forces a smile onto his face.

 

“Welcome home, Iwa-chan!” he chirps.

  
  


Irihata gets slapped with a heavy sentence on a Wednesday. The skies turn from sunny and bright to a miserable grey. Hajime stops trying to smile. His eyes look haunted.

 

Two days later, the rain that had been looming ever since finally starts to fall, just in time for the funeral of Daisho Yoshinori.

 

Oikawa doesn’t go to the service - it’s unlikely he’d be allowed in even if he wanted to. But he does find himself at the cemetery afterward, watching from between crumbling headstones as the ostentatious casket is lowered into the ground without really knowing why.

 

The Daisho clan has always been a traditionally Catholic family, for whatever reason. The Priest, cloaked in pristine white, stands at the head of a cluster of black-clad figures surrounding the grave, addressing them across the hole in the ground where the man is being put to rest. The U-shaped crowd of the man’s closest mourners is least three people deep on two sides - Daisho Yoshinori’s closest advisors and aides stand stoically in their subdued black suits, heads bent, while their wives dab at their eyes beneath wide-brimmed hats or netted veils. They don’t mean it.

 

Daisho Suguru stands opposite the priest at the foot of the grave, hands in the pockets of his slacks the whole time. Oikawa is too far away to see his expression, but he imagines it’s the same stone-cold mask he was wearing the day he killed the man.

 

A pace behind him and flanking him on either side are a pair of tall, broad-shouldered men. One of them holds a black umbrella over Daisho’s head, keeping him dry and sheltered from the miserable downpour. The pair aren’t close friends or family there for support - that much is clear. They’re a symbol of what Daisho has inherited from his father, men tasked to protect the new King at all costs. Their presence is a statement, loud and clear.

 

When prompted, Daisho steps forward to take a handful of dirt from the ornate box offered to him, and tosses it over the casket now nestled in its permanent home. No one else partakes - his mother died years ago and he’d never been granted siblings. Daisho Suguru simply becomes _Daisho_ ; the only one left.

 

The Priest ends the blessing, shares a few words with some people, and then turns to leave with a nod to the son of the deceased. Daisho stands by the elaborate floral arrangement set up next to the grave as people form a loose line to offer their final condolences and more importantly, pay their respects to the new head of the Daisho family.

 

Oikawa pulls his coat tighter around himself, blinking away the raindrops trickling down from his wet hair and staying until the very end when the last mourner has left and only Daisho and his chaperones remain. He watches as Daisho observes the trickle of mourners head along the main path out of the cemetery for a few moments, before beginning his own descent down the slight, grassy slope towards the sleek black car waiting for him.

 

He doesn’t cast a single glance back at his father’s grave as he walks away from it.

 

Instead, when his feet touch tarmac he glances up from beneath the umbrella, and despite the distance between them, he meets Tooru’s eyes.

 

His face turns to the side, just slightly, and he must say something, because the next thing Oikawa knows, Daisho is taking the handle of the umbrella for himself and crossing the wide pathway towards him.

 

Tooru’s not an idiot - he meets him halfway across the grass on his own side, whether he wants to or not.

 

 _My condolences_ , is probably what he should say, if this were a normal situation. Oikawa doesn’t think it’s appropriate considering Daisho is the reason his father is dead in the first place.

 

...Oikawa, too.

 

His hands start to tremble, pink from the cold, so he slides them into the pockets of his coat.

 

When Daisho comes closer, he realizes there’s something bigger about him now. Oikawa doesn’t know if it’s because he’s finally at the top of the mountain, or because he’s free from beneath his father’s thumb, or both. Regardless, it’s like something has finally settled in the line Daisho’s shoulders; like he’s reached his full, wicked potential at long last.

 

Daisho’s free hand is still in his trouser pocket, his head tilted down the slightest bit as he comes to a stop. The man looks relaxed, not at all like he’s just said goodbye to his father for the final time.

 

For a moment, the only sound between them is the arrhythmic patter of rain against the smooth surface of the umbrella.

 

“I had plans,” Daisho eventually says, and even though his voice is the same as it’s always been, soft and with a slight lisp, there’s a new, dangerous weight to the way he speaks. “Plans that had to be adjusted because of your decision. It caused me a lot of trouble.”

 

When he looks up at Oikawa his eyes are sharp steel, cutting through the haze of the rainy afternoon. Oikawa feels so completely _seen_ , and not in a good way.

 

“This,” Daisho says to him, pale fingers tightening around the curved handle of the umbrella, “is the kind of debt that follows you forever. The kind you can’t escape from.”

 

The look in his serpentine eyes says _you belong to me, now._

 

And Oikawa knows he will never be free unless Daisho says so.

  


♠ ♡ ♣ ♢ ♠ ♡ ♣ ♢ ♠ ♡ ♣ ♢ ♠ ♡ ♣ ♢

**PRESENT DAY**

 

By the end of it, Iwaizumi has sunk down the wall to sit on the floor. They sit there and neither says a word, only Oikawa’s hitched breaths filling the dead space of the bedroom.

 

Eventually, he can’t help it. “You should have told me,” he says softly, and it sounds broken even to him.

 

Oikawa’s head was already dipped low, his interlaced fingers suspended in the space between his knees, but at that something breaks and his shoulders sink lower, bending him almost double as he lets out a quiet sob. Iwaizumi swipes roughly at the dampness under his own eyes and wonders how the fuck all this happened.

 

“Your heart was breaking over Irihata,” is Oikawa’s shaky reply when he finally gathers himself enough to speak. “You had so much on your mind, then.” He did, but he’d never been too busy or too preoccupied with other thoughts to be there for Oikawa when he needed him. Or so he’d thought, anyway.

 

“Then you were so haunted, and you hated the life we’d built, and you were so intent on getting out.”

 

Iwaizumi stares at Oikawa’s clasped hands and his hunched shoulders, the entirety of him shaking under the weight of years of secrets and loneliness and _pain_. His heart breaks in a way it’s never been broken before.

 

“And I wanted that for you,” Oikawa continues, his voice gaining a little volume and pitching closer to a sad, heart-wrenching whine. “I couldn’t have that anymore, but I wanted that for you. And I knew if I told you about it, you’d stay with me and be haunted and miserable forever. Or you’d try to fix it, and who knows what would have happened then?”

 

Iwaizumi is walking on his knees over to him before he knows it. With ever so careful hands, he reaches forward to place large palms to Oikawa’s wet cheeks and guides his face upwards. This sad, sorry face he’s seen before, but never quite like this. His heart swells, with pain and affection and protective instinct and a million other things Hajime could never identify.

 

It’s the second instance in his lifetime where he’s looked at Oikawa Tooru’s face and really realized what it is to _feel._

 

Tooru’s handsome face is soaked with tears and snot, and it’s so unattractive, but no one else could ever, ever make Hajime feel like this.

 

“And I wanted you to stay. I wanted you to notice I was hiding something and ask me to tell you, because if you’d have just _asked_ me I would have told you, and then you would have stayed and forced yourself to do this with me forever or try and fix it. I wanted that so bad, because I’ve always been so selfish, haven’t I?” The laugh Tooru lets out is anything but happy or amused. Hajime hates the sound.

 

“And that was really when I knew I had to let you go.” Oikawa’s outright sobbing now, his entire face ruddy with the exertion and all his words slurring together like an inconsolable child. “And you did, Iwa-chan. You left me. _And it was all my fault!”_

 

His brows furrow down with the extreme effort it takes to keep a hold of himself as Oikawa wails. Soft chocolate waves slide through his rough-knuckled fingers as he slides a hand around to the back of Oikawa’s head, pulling him forward so the other man’s face is pressed to his chest, not minding the mess that will undoubtedly transfer to his designer shirt.

 

Oikawa could have told him. Iwaizumi doesn’t think he’d have even been mad - none of this is really Tooru’s fault at all, even if he’s not particularly fond of the idea of Oikawa being willing to give his own life to preserve the integrity of their relationship. He would have stayed, because if it came between Oikawa and anything else? He’d take Oikawa. He hadn’t thought that was on the table, back then. He thought he’d been broken up with.

 

So Oikawa could have told him. Like he said before, he _should_ have told him. Oikawa should have agreed to anything that would get him out that room alive, and then head straight back to _him_ so they could figure it out together. But Hajime won’t voice a word of that, especially not now. It won’t help anything. It’ll just serve as the most painful reminder that all of this could have been avoided if they’d just communicated with each other.

 

“It’s alright,” he coos, winding his other arm around Oikawa’s back and pressing his cheek to the top of Oikawa’s head. He’s unused to this, to comforting Oikawa, to giving him the kind of comfort he needs. It’s strange, how it feels strange and yet so familiar at the same time. “I’m going to fix this,” he promises, meaning it with every fiber of his being. “ _We’re_ going to fix this.”

 

Oikawa all but collapses within the protective cage of Hajime’s arms, his hands coming round to grab harsh, unrelenting handfuls of his jacket, clinging right back. Holding onto him the way he’s always wanted to.

 

“But first, we have to bring the others back. They need to know.”

  
  


♠ ♡ ♣ ♢ ♠ ♡ ♣ ♢ ♠ ♡ ♣ ♢ ♠ ♡ ♣ ♢

  


Later that night, Kyoutani finds himself back in Oikawa’s house. The whole story had been unleashed on them once they’d been called back - Kyoutani doesn’t fully understand, missing a lot of it without having the background knowledge and shared history the others are privy to, but he gets the main gist of it at least: Daisho killed someone (unsurprising) and that someone was his dad (intense ...but still kind of unsurprising, if he’s honest) and that Oikawa had been there when it happened.

 

Oikawa never really explained why he refused to do the job or at least pretend to agree, but the others seemed to get it pretty quickly. Kyoutani doesn’t know anything about Daisho’s father except the fact he seemed like a real fucking piece of work, but he assumes any attempt to screw him over wouldn’t have been wise. In the end Hanamaki had piled on Oikawa, and Kyoutani had been a little surprised at the extent of the reaction, especially at the sight of the tears in the man’s eyes. Matsukawa had kept quiet but looked distraught, sitting beside the tangle of the two men and reaching out to hold Oikawa’s hand.

 

Iwaizumi-san had said nothing the whole time, cringing at the worst points but mostly just looking like he was thinking deeply.

 

Eventually, Oikawa had excused himself, and it wasn’t long after when Hanamaki and Matsukawa broke away to claim the guest bedroom. That left Kyoutani and Iwaizumi here, taking up a couch each in the living room. The house is quiet now, and all the interior lights are off. It’s late, but the house isn’t completely dark thanks to the lights filtering through the large wall of windows facing out into the garden.

 

He doesn’t get the feeling Iwaizumi is asleep, though they haven’t talked in a while. They just lie there in silence, Kyoutani staring at the ceiling and trying to process everything. Not just the truth of why Oikawa and Iwaizumi broke up, but their entire trip here. Two weeks ago it was just him and Iwaizumi against the world, and he was content with that. He’s met countless people since then - some he hasn’t liked at all, and some he’s warming to. All Iwaizumi’s people. Two weeks ago, he thought they were exactly the same. The truth of the matter, though, is Iwaizumi has other people who love him and know him far better; people he can rely on. Kyoutani doesn’t have that.

 

Before Iwaizumi, he’d never had people in his corner. His blood family had been shit, and then after acting out and fucking up school, he thought he’d found another, new kind of family. A better one. He thinks about the tattoo he’d gotten to show his devotion; all the bad things he did to prove himself and fit in; the way when things got bad they all abandoned him. It wasn’t at all like what Iwaizumi had with Oikawa, Matsukawa and Hanamaki. What he still has. They might do bad things, but they all look out for each other. That’s not the kind of bond you can just sever, he doesn’t think.

 

Kyoutani supposes he’s just easy to leave behind.

 

“I can hear you thinking,” Iwaizumi says softly, voice a little rough from not using it for a while. Kyoutani’s eyes slide through the darkness to seek out the silhouette of his mentor on the other couch. “Wanna talk about?”

 

No, not really. Kyoutani isn’t the type to voice his insecurities. Even as he’s thinking that, though, his mouth opens without his express permission:

 

“Are you going to stay?” he asks, and regrets it immediately. His eyes snap back to the ceiling above him as he wishes he could pluck the words right back out of the air.

 

The slightest shuffling from the other sofa, and then a soft sigh.

 

“To tell the truth, I don’t know,” is the answer he gets back.

 

Kyoutani rolls onto his side and hitches up his blanket, his back to the room.

 

He thinks it might be obvious that’s not the question he really wants to ask,  but he doesn’t get an answer to that one.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ONE MORE PART LEFT!!! (I swear, this time!)
> 
> THANK YOU to all the people reading/supporting this fic! I'm so happy there are people that stuck through that looong prologue and are invested in this story of mine! U r ALL The Best. 
> 
> Special thanks to Ria ([AO3](https://archiveofourown.org/users/bluu/pseuds/bluu), [tumblr](http://iwaizumings.tumblr.com/)) for befriending me, occasionally yelling at me, checking the first half of this update wasn't garbage, and writing [the best Iwaoi lawyer!au ever](https://archiveofourown.org/works/15520347/chapters/36026700). If you haven't read Trial By Fire yet, DO IT! 
> 
> If you've got the time, I'd love to read what you have to say about this part (or the fic in general if it's your first time!) either here in the comments or [on tumblr!!](http://berbrennung.tumblr.com/)


	5. actually, i'm goin' with ya

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> payment, a show-down, a deal, and a car (or two?)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> we made it!! so this fic has been a lot! in different ways. it's been the idea in the back of my mind for years, my ever-present background project, my experiment, my challenge, my baby _and_ my saviour when halfway through posting i lost a beloved family member and could invest my energy into this instead of being sad or something more destructive. i've been working on it (whether passively or actively) for years, and now it's done. what. the fuck.
> 
> thank you to anyone who's ever sat through my rambling ideas or has been a soundboard when i was trying to work plot-points out. to anyone who ever read a draft and given their opinion or helped me in any way with the process. thank you to everyone who has read each published chapter, who has left kudos or written funny, insightful, kind and _motivating_ comments while this piece was a wip, or dm'ed me on tumblr!! i'll always have love for the desperado crew, thank you so much! and thank YOU, whoever you are whenever you read this!
> 
> please check out the: [SPOTIFY PLAYLIST](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/4z6NEM4nqOCJfb1X1rtZtc) | [ART OF THE POLAROIDS!!](https://nobodycaresabt.tumblr.com/post/178623975520/its-probably-got-something-to-do-with-the-boy-in)

 

 

The next morning, Iwaizumi gets up well before anyone else - even the perpetual early riser Kyoutani still snoring on the couch - to head out in the Chevy and pick up some things for the new day. The nature of the previous night’s events meant that they’d all returned to the house without any supplies necessary for an overnight stay, so Iwaizumi plays mom for the four guests and goes shopping for clothes. After all, it’s not really an option to return to Daisho’s hotel just yet - especially not empty-handed. And if he’s going anyway he might as well pick up Matsukawa and Hanamaki something to wear too, to save them from heading home to change. It’s not like money is an issue; he’s been more than fine for years, not to mention the fact there’s a paycheck from Daisho coming in a few hours.

 

Although it’s ostensibly a practical decision, there’s no denying it’s also at least partly a diversionary tactic: he wants to escape from the situation for a little while; take some time for himself. So that’s what he does as he browses through racks of expensive clothes – something that he has, surprisingly, missed quite a bit in the last few years. A meeting with Daisho usually requires dressing smartly, and Iwaizumi has grown unused to dressing nicely almost every day, having swapped his suits and nice shoes for oil-stained overalls and work boots. He thinks the five of them would do well to at least try to put up some sort of united front and dress up for the meeting, since there’s no way to know how it’s going to go.

 

When he returns to the house, the sun is steadily rising towards its highest point in the clear blue sky and there’s an  _atmosphere_. Iwaizumi had expected as much but having to wade through that tension is a completely different experience to just thinking about it.

 

As soon as he clears the entrance hall into the open living space, he sees Matsukawa’s broad back as the man stands at the stove-top cooking up breakfast. He doesn’t turn around, but at the sound of the Chevy keys dropping onto the side table he gives a lazy wave of his spatula.

 

Hanamaki is sitting at the breakfast bar that acts as a sort of divider between the kitchen area and the rest of the room. Steam rises up from the cup of coffee cradled in his large hands, fresh and still hot. He flicks his eyes to Iwaizumi, holding eye contact for a few seconds before he turns his gaze to the countertop, frowning a little. He’s pissed off, Iwaizumi can tell, not just because he was woken up earlier than he’d have liked by a phone call asking for his and Matsukawa’s measurements, but also because of everything that came out the night before. So, he’s mad at Iwaizumi two-fold, albeit one reason much more significant than the other. But he’s also probably mad at himself for not noticing something was up with Oikawa sooner. Likely at Oikawa too, now that he’s had time to stew it all over.

 

He’s the kind of person who doesn’t believe in keeping secrets - everything’s out there with him. Even if he covers it up with jokes and mischief, there’s a lot of earnestness to him, and it’s a personal insult to him if people feel they can’t share with him. Hajime had known this, but he’d still sent them away the night before, before they could hear the whole story. He feels bad for it, even if he still believes he and Oikawa needed that.

 

Iwaizumi swings the garment bags that he’d been holding over his shoulder around to present them - not quite a peace offering, but hoping for the same effect anyway.

 

“Picked up a change of clothes for everyone,” he says, even though they probably knew that already from the awkward phone call earlier.

 

“I’m making breakfast,” Matsukawa offers in return, and Hajime is at least grateful for the fact his tone is the same as always. Clearly, he’s making an effort. Hanamaki still doesn’t say a word.

 

“Any of that coffee left?” Iwaizumi asks him directly and Hanamaki sits back in his stool and sighs. He raises his hand and waves towards a glass carafe on the far counter in the universal sign for  _go ahead._

 

The newly-bought clothes get dumped on the dining table in the pursuit of caffeine. When Iwaizumi’s poured himself a mug and stolen some of Oikawa’s overpriced creamer, it feels natural to hop up onto the counter beside the sink, opposite the pink-haired man. And that’s because it  _is_  natural. It’s the kind of thing he did all the time before he moved out of here. His best friends would inevitably show up earlier in the morning, and the three of them would hang out together while they waited for sleepy-head Oikawa to finally rise from their obnoxiously comfortable bed at least an hour or two after everyone else.

 

“I fucked up.”

 

He thinks they’re probably fine, but he wants to remove any sort of atmosphere as soon as possible. Not just because of what their plans for the day are, but also because these are his  _best fucking friends._  He can’t fuck it up with them. He can’t.

 

Matsukawa heaves a sigh, dumping a mound of scrambled eggs onto a large plate. Beside that are matching ones piled with breakfast meats, ready to go. Iwaizumi  _knows_ Matsukawa is upset about it all; the two of them are very similar in some ways. Like him, Issei has a protective streak - even if he doesn’t always show it. It’s particularly strong when directed towards Hanamaki and Oikawa.

 

“We all fucked up,” he says gravely, meeting Hajime’s eyes finally.

 

It makes him grip the handle of his mug tighter, his shoulders dropping in some kind of dejection.

 

“I’m gonna make it right,” Hajime vows, looking Matsukawa in the eye, and then turning his head to do the same with Hanamaki. “All of it.” Or he’s gonna try his damn best, at least. "I won't leave him again unless he wants me to."

 

Hanamaki presses his lips together, eyes dipping to stare into his coffee for a second and then he nods.

 

"Whatever you guys decide to do from here,  wherever you decide to go," he says carefully, turning to look at Mattsun for reassurance before turning back to Iwaizumi; a sign they've discussed it between themselves. Makki's eyes are serious as he finally broaches the topic none of them have really dared to speak of, lest they jinx themselves. Iwaizumi's heart thumps in his chest at Hanamaki's wording, as if he and Oikawa are a foregone conclusion already. "Me and Mattsun are down. We stick together, all of us."

 

He’s about to say something, but the sound of shuffling behind him stops him before he can formulate the words. Instead, they all turn to the doorway of the hallway that leads to the rest of the house.

 

It’s Kyoutani, dressed in the slacks from the night before, the cheap white uniform shirt on but unbuttoned, still damp from the shower. He stops as soon as he’s in the room, locking eyes with Iwaizumi but then turning away from him just as quickly.

 

Another person mad at him, then. Hajime isn’t sure what’s up with the kid, but he’s one hundred percent sure it’s his fault - it’s probably that he dragged him into all of this drama in the first place. He’ll have to talk to him about it at some point, but for now Iwaizumi just withholds a sigh and nods his head at the table.

 

“Change of clothes in the garment bag on top, then breakfast.”

 

Kyoutani nods and heads over to grab it. When he takes it back through the doorway, presumably to change in private, he passes Oikawa, who emerges dressed and primped.

 

Before he’s even said a word, Hajime can tell he’s loaded with nervous, frenetic energy. The way he won’t look anyone in the eye is already painfully obvious, and he fiddles with the expensive cufflinks on his designer shirt as he comes closer, looking handsome as always - but also hunted.

 

Matsukawa frowns at him. Iwaizumi and Hanamaki trade sidewards glances with each other.

 

“Breakfast first, yeah?” Oikawa asks, bustling into the kitchen area to pour himself the last of the coffee, movements a little too jerky. He’s never much liked being vulnerable, even with them. He’s always on edge and uncomfortable in the days afterwards, almost like he’s expecting someone to take advantage of it.

 

Hanamaki climbs off the stool and stretches to his full height, moving to pull the remaining clothing bags off the table. “Yep,” he says breezily, pulling out his favorite chair to sit on and accepting Oikawa’s attempt at normalcy. “Mattsun, bring me my food. Iwaizumi, pour the kiddo some OJ for when he’s done dressing himself.”

 

Iwaizumi snorts at the demand as Oikawa passes him quickly with coffee in one hand, plate of eggs in the other, as if he’s scared Hajime’s gonna snap at him or something.

 

“You don’t want him to hear you say shit like that about him,” he says, setting up the coffee machine to refill the pot. Hanamaki isn’t the type to hold grudges, but Iwaizumi’s still infinitely glad to see he’s letting his disappointment go this time, too. “He’s just starting to like you.”

 

The other’s very vocal delight is obscured by the coffee machine and the sounds of the people at the table moving things around and beginning to eat, but Iwaizumi still finds himself smiling a little to himself at the reaction.

 

Kyoutani returns, now dressed in the new suit that Iwaizumi bought for him, and it looks good. There’s no tie, because he doesn’t need one but also because Iwaizumi hasn’t forgotten the promise he made to him. When he sits down, Matsukawa piles his plate high with food and Iwaizumi wants to laugh at the look of troubled consternation on the younger man’s face as he just... lets it happen. Typically, he isn’t good in groups but something about him here just fits and Iwaizumi is glad.

 

When the coffee’s done, Iwaizumi brings the pot over to the table along with a few extra mugs. He drops one of them down next to Kyoutani and seeks out the kid’s gaze, satisfied when he gets a silent nod in return.

 

They eat in tentative peace, but with an ever-present layer of awkwardness and anxiety. Clearly, everyone’s still feeling a little blindsided, a little raw. Nobody acknowledges any of that, or what they’re doing today, until they’re all done.

 

Issei puts his coffee cup down and something about it feels like the slam of a gavel, an announcement that proceedings are about to begin.

 

“So what’s the plan?” he asks and everyone seems to tense up as one as soon as the words are out. His eyes flick over to Iwaizumi, who has been prepared for the question for a while now.

 

“We’ll head over to the hotel at noon and hand over the photos, as planned,” he says, aware of every single pair of eyes focused on him now. “Then afterwards, I’m gonna talk to him.”

 

Hanamaki’s sitting directly opposite him, so when his mouth drops open Hajime has a perfect view of the spectacle.

 

“That’s it?” he asks, incredulous.

 

Hajime picks up his fork and spins it between his fingers, hyper aware of every part of his body he’s forcing to keep relaxed - and of the expectation placed on him. “Pretty much,” he says, purposefully vague.

 

 

 ♠ ♡ ♣ ♢ ♠ ♡ ♣ ♢ ♠ ♡ ♣ ♢ ♠ ♡ ♣ ♢

 

 

After Hajime’s grand reveal they disperse, all still a little incredulous by the staunch lack of ingenuity or intricacy in the plan. Oikawa and Kyoutani are the only ones already dressed, so the others leave them and head deeper into the house, probably to shower and change.

 

Oikawa just hopes Hajime stays out of their -  _his -_ bedroom.

 

Kyoutani escaped from the table at the first possible chance, so Oikawa clears up by himself, loading the plates and utensils in the dishwasher and tidying everything away. When he’s done he risks a glance over his shoulder into the living room, but Kyoutani isn’t there.

 

It doesn’t take long to find him - Oikawa takes the few steps down into main space and once he reaches the couch he can see the younger man sitting on the edge of the veranda outside, smoke rising above his head and then dissipating.

 

Oikawa doesn’t know why he does it, but he slides the door open and steps out himself. Maybe it’s because he feels bad for unsettling what was probably a pretty good life for Kyoutani before all this happened. Or maybe it’s because Kyoutani is the only one who doesn’t have an emotional stake in this, and thus is the only one Oikawa hasn’t disappointed beyond belief.

 

Neither of them says anything at first, as Oikawa sits down beside him with an appropriate gap between them. He stretches his legs out, the heels of his shoes nestling into the green grass beyond the wooden platform, and just breathes for a moment. Much like the first and only time they’d found themselves somewhere alone together, Kyoutani just eyes him almost warily, taking another drag of his cigarette. On the exhale, he turns away to keep the smoke awake from Oikawa, who feels his own eyes widen as he’s suddenly taken by a memory of a younger Hajime always doing the same thing.

 

They’re  _so_ similar.

 

Tooru lets out a breath and turns back to stare ahead of himself. It’s a beautiful day, with just the slightest breeze casting its way across and through all leafy green plants that have a home in the garden, causing them to rustle and sway. The house and its grounds have always been his own personal haven, almost everything chosen or designed by himself, and surround by tall, white walls to shelter him from the outside world. It had lost some of its appeal and tranquillity in the past few years, but it’s regaining a sense of comfort with more people inside it. Sitting here in the sun with the smell of cigarette smoke getting carried off in the wind, he could almost close his eyes and be four years in the past, before none of this ever happened.

 

And yet.

 

“You think he’s going to leave you,” he says to Kyoutani, seemingly out of the blue though he’s been thinking about it for a while now - since he saw the way Kyoutani looked at Hajime the night before, after Oikawa had told him everything and they’d come back to the house. The way he’d been acting around everyone this morning has only cemented Oikawa’s suspicions. This is the reason he’d sought him out in the first place.

 

Kyoutani doesn’t say a thing. In fact, the only indication that he hears Tooru at all is the way his hand falters on the way to bring the filter of the cigarette back to his lips. He catches himself quickly enough, and soon he’s letting another plume of smoke leave from between his lips.

 

Now, Oikawa doesn’t know Kyoutani that well. But he knows what it’s like to be young and damaged and to finally get something you don’t want to lose.

 

He knows what it’s like to love and need Iwaizumi Hajime.

 

“He won’t.” Of that he’s completely sure. “He loves you.”

 

Kyoutani actually snorts at that. “Loved you too, didn’t he?” It’s not meant as a barb, Tooru doesn’t think, but it still hurts to hear it.

 

“True,” he allows, smoothing his hands down his pants legs before turning to look at the other.

 

Who is already watching him, cigarette idly burning down between lax fingers. “And that was  _real_ love. Still is.”

 

“That was  _romantic_ love,” Oikawa responds. “- mostly. But it’s not like that’s the only kind that matter. Isn’t it all ‘real’?”

 

Kyoutani shrugs, and Tooru’s surprised at how much that single action breaks his heart. “I wouldn’t really know.”

 

Oikawa frowns, staring at him more intensely, and then says, very carefully, “I think you do now.”

 

For all he’s said or pointedly  _not_ said, he’s never hated Kyoutani. Felt threatened by him? Sure. Been a little jealous of him? Naturally. All because it was because of his relationship with Hajime, not because of any dislike of him as a person. If one person knows Iwaizumi, it’s Oikawa - and it has been plain to see just how much he cares about Kyoutani, how close they are, from the first time he’d seen them together. It had hurt. Still does, really.

 

As he thinks about what he knows of Kyoutani, Tooru could actually laugh, though he won’t. A thought strikes him, and he wonders how he couldn’t see it before: Kyoutani has a very high opinion of Iwaizumi; he can’t trust that Hajime cares about him as much as  _he_  cares about Hajime.

 

That way of thinking? That crippling desire and need to be loved, to be important? That’s  _just_  like Tooru. Maybe Iwaizumi hadn’t only seen a younger version of himself in Kyoutani.  _God dammit, Hajime._

 

“The way you love him?” Oikawa says instead, willing him to listen and  _believe._ “He feels the exact same way about you. If not more.” He breaks the eye contact then, to look up at the clear sky. “Hajime,” he muses, the name heavy on his tongue, “isn’t the type to tell you something like that. But - he’s very good at showing it, if you pay attention.”

 

Oikawa does chuckle a little then. “You know, on a job he’s the most observant person in the world. But that’s when he’s working - when he’s around people he knows and feels safe with, he lets his guard down. He isn’t always looking. If you need him, you have to make sure he knows that. He loved me, but he left me because I didn’t do that. As smart as he is, he doesn’t always know what you’re thinking. I let him think I’d be fine without him, and I hurt both of us doing that.”

 

Standing up, he brushes off the seat of his pants and then steps back up onto the veranda. He moves back towards the house, but before he gets to the sliding door, he pauses and turns back to Kyoutani.

 

“I’m not going to steal him from you,” he says, going for bluntness because he thinks Kyoutani will appreciate that much.

 

Because he’s really not. What each of them has with Hajime - it isn’t the same, and it’s not one or the other. There’s room for both.

 

“And make sure you dispose of that thing properly when you’re done,” he orders, because he can’t stand leaving it on such a serious note. “Smoking outside doesn’t earn you any points if I find cigarette ends on my lawn.”

 

When he steps back into the house, Hanamaki and Matsukawa are dressed, but slouched ungracefully on the couch watching daytime television, which is where Oikawa can usually find them when they’re here.

 

“What was that all about?” Hanamaki asks, shooting him a look that feels equal parts all-knowing and mischievous.

 

Oikawa scoffs, feeling caught. “Just making sure the rules regarding smoking on my property are enforced, especially after last night,” he lies easily, slapping his friend’s long legs off his wooden coffee table.

 

As Hanamaki grumbles and twists to swing his legs onto Matsukawa’s lap instead, something catches Oikawa’s eye - or rather, he notices something for the first time.

 

There are two folders. The photos, obviously, but - something else too…? He’d pulled out his earpiece when he’d gone up to Atsumu’s suite, not wanting to hear the others - Hajime especially - while he was up there keeping him busy. It was why he’d been so shocked to see the other man at the door. But clearly he’d missed something else, too.

 

“What-” he starts to ask, but he’s already picking them up to check the contents, flipping the cover of the first one open.

 

Those are the photos and Oikawa winces, closing that one and setting it down before opening the second.

 

“This is--” his eyes scan over the first page, which looks to be a list of… associates? Informants? He’d hardly know. The second is a photo. It’s nothing incriminating; especially not on its own: just a handshake. What  _is_  interesting, however, is who is in the photo.

 

Daisho.

 

Like the other manila folder, there are only a few sheets of paper inside. The final page he looks at is another photograph, and it’s Daisho again, this time with-- holy  _shit,_ that’s Captain Oomizu from the  _Police Department._ He very carefully shuts the folder.

 

“What the hell is this?” Oikawa asks when he pulls himself together, voice deadly serious as he flicks his eyes up to the others.

 

They’re already watching him, faces identically blank.

 

“Hajime asked Makki to pull anything else the twins had on Daisho from the safe,” Matsukawa responds easily, his thumb never ceasing its idle stroking over Hanamaki’s kneecap. His tone is just  _daring_ Oikawa to try and chew said man out.

 

Oikawa feels anger curl in his stomach. “Where is he?” This isn’t down to Makki, that much is obvious.

 

Matsukawa and Hanamaki both shrug. Oikawa grits his teeth, gripping the folder as he storms towards the back rooms of the house.

 

His bedroom is the first place he looks, and of  _course_  the light is on. He spends all of a second glancing around the empty room before he immediately heads to the ensuite, opening the door to see if Iwaizumi is using  _his_ bathroom.

 

He isn’t.

 

There’s another door leading from within the bedroom - the door to the walk-in closet. It isn’t closed all the way like he’d left it earlier, and Oikawa has to stop himself from snarling as he wraps his free hand around the door and yanks it open.

 

Sure enough Hajime is in there, and  _son of a bitch_  - he’s pulled open the floor-length mirror slash hidden door open to reveal the safe installed there. He’s crouched in front of it, looking at the electronic reader thoughtfully. Everything about him radiates  _casual;_  he doesn’t even bother to turn to look at Tooru right away, to assume any kind of guilt.

 

“What the  _hell_  are you doing?!” Oikawa beseeches, floundering between rage and complete shock.

 

“Well,” Hajime says, not deigning to stand up or look cowed at all, despite the fact he’s been caught red-handed. “I  _was_  stealing a pair of cufflinks,” he explains, and Oikawa half-turns to the display tray of his accessory collection to check which ones before he snaps back to what he really should be focusing on which is  _the man examining his safe,_  “but now I’m trying to decide if you’ve changed the code on this thing or not.”

 

Oikawa really wants to kick him - or do  _something_  semi-violent at least - until he shakes his head to will the impulse away so he can remember what he wanted to speak to him about in the first place.

 

“And what the Hell is  _this?”_

 

Flint eyes flicker to the folder he’s indignantly brandishing at him, and then move back to Tooru’s face.

 

“Photos,” he brazenly tries first, and when Oikawa rolls his eyes with gusto, he shrugs. “Hm, first it was a ‘fuck you’,” his gaze turns intent, and then -, “now it’s insurance.”

 

Oikawa feels himself waver, guilt and regret and embarrassment and anger swirling inside of him. He tosses the folder to the carpet by Iwaizumi.

 

“So what, you’re just gonna try and blackmail  _Daisho_  if ‘talking’ to him doesn’t work?” Honestly, Oikawa doesn’t believe that simply  _talking_  to Daisho has ever been the plan, so this shouldn’t be surprising ...but it’s just so -  _stupid._

 

Hajime shrugs and turns back to the safe. “Maybe.”

 

“That’s the ace up your sleeve,” because Hajime made it his  _thing_  to always have something in reserve, just in case, “really? It’s like you don’t know who you’re dealing with!”

 

He doesn’t get a response to that. Instead, Oikawa gets to watch in horror as Iwaizumi inputs the correct code - because no, he hadn’t changed the combination for the safe, just like he hadn’t changed the code for the security gates or any other aspect of the house. Just in case.

 

The device beeps and the door pops open; Hajime glances back at him where he’s standing frozen before he opens it fully.

 

“I know exactly who I’m dealing with,” Hajime says with a heavy seriousness, reaching for the case on the bottom shelf. He pulls it out, opens it and Oikawa swears, taking a step back and turning away, unable to believe what he’s seeing.

 

He can’t look, but he  _has_  to, and when he turns around Hajime is lifting the gun they’ve always kept there - never used and for emergencies only - checking it’s loaded and that the safety’s on.

 

“Hajime,  _please don’t_ -” but he does, tucking it into the back of his pants nonchalantly before making sure his brand new jacket is covering it.

 

“I once told you, years ago,” Hajime starts, voice  _too_ controlled as he closes the gun’s now-empty case, “that I would do anything for you.” He slides the case back onto the shelf where he found it.

 

Oikawa remembers.

 

Hajime’s looking at him, now.

 

“You should know I don’t say things like that if I don’t mean it.”

 

Oikawa  _does_  know. He remembers that night, remembers laying with him on that double mattress in Hajime’s shitty old apartment. It was still a new, and non-sexual, arrangement; he’d only just started being able to have him that close while he was sleeping and vulnerable.

 

They were on their sides facing each other when he said the words. Oikawa remembers the conviction in his eyes, remembers being shocked because they weren’t even together then - it had come far, far before they said ‘I love you’. Even so, he remembers believing Hajime; truly, madly, deeply.

 

“I don’t want this for you,” he says now, hating the way his voice sounds.

 

Hajime’s face is grave. “Now you know how I feel.”

 

He goes to swing the safe door shut, but something catches his eye and he stops the motion at the last second. Tooru has one second of total confusion, and then his stomach drops the same time Hajime reaches his hand inside, face turned to Oikawa in shock.

 

Tooru knows exactly what it is in Iwaizumi’s hands before the man has even pulled it out.

 

The golden key swings and spins in the air as it’s held aloft, the movement twisting the gold chain it hangs from until it reaches its limit and rapidly unwinds, spinning the other way.

 

“Stop going through my belongings,” he forces himself to say into the heavy silence despite the fact it’s  _way_  too late for that objection.

 

Hajime’s gaze doesn’t waver.

 

“Technically this was mine, first.”

 

A key to that same old apartment. The first and most important gift Hajime had ever given him: a safe space. A home. A place to  _belong._

 

It hadn’t looked like the same back then, of course. The key was silver and spotted with rust in the beginning. For lack of a keyring, Hajime had fished through a ratty backpack in his closet, and pulled out the long, golden chain it still hangs from now. It was obviously stolen, but Oikawa hadn’t said anything about it when Hajime threaded the delicate links through the hole at the top of the key and told him it was so he never lost it by accident.

 

He’d looked so sweet when he thrusted it towards Oikawa. It’d been the first time Oikawa had called him Iwa-chan.

 

It hung around his neck for years, almost without exception. One year, for their anniversary, Hajime had it coated in gold. It was the single most ostentatious, ridiculous,  _romantic_  thing Iwaizumi had ever gotten him. He loved it.

 

It’s always held far too much meaning. Right now, its presence says a great deal more than Oikawa wants to share.

 

“Fuck you,” he says, and it sounds pleading even to him.

 

“You kept it.”

 

“Put it  _back.”_

 

Hajime watches him for another few moments, that severe, complicated look on his face, and then he does as he’s asked. The door to the safe clicks shut.

 

Oikawa’s angry. Hadn’t he made it clear how he felt last night?

 

“Of course I kept it,” he snaps. And then, “we have somewhere to be.” After which he promptly turns on his heel and flees from the room.

 

 

 ♠ ♡ ♣ ♢ ♠ ♡ ♣ ♢ ♠ ♡ ♣ ♢ ♠ ♡ ♣ ♢

 

 

Daisho’s in a good mood today. He’d gotten a text from Oikawa the night before, so he’d slept even more soundly than usual - after celebrating with his wife, of course. The weather’s nice; he and Mika had breakfast together on the terrace before he’d starting his working day.

 

And now he’s in his office, wearing his second shirt of the day _,_  waiting to put an end to this whole chapter. It’s a nice day, so Daisho stands in front of the window, basking in the sun’s warmth as he regards the view of the hotel grounds below. By the time Numai knocks on the door to let him know they’ve arrived, he’s more than ready to wave them in, stepping out of the sunlight and deeper into the room. Thin, pale fingers drag across a corner of his glass-and-steel desk as he rounds the piece of sleek furniture, sitting on his chair and rearranging the items atop the surface until everything is in its right place.

 

Just as he’s done straightening up the last pen, the door opens and in they come.

 

Immediately there’s something different about them - usually Oikawa comes by himself to ensure payments are made; if Hanamaki and Matsukawa tag along they usually lope through the door and eschew all social graces. Instead, all of them are smart and serious-faced today, and Daisho immediately sweeps his dark gaze over each of them, trying to puzzle over exactly what it is that’s different. It’s not the same kind of tension that had been there when they’d met back at the house.

 

“Ah, look at this - I take it you all got along after all?” he croons, leaning back in his chair, fingers linked over his stomach. That’s what’s different, they’re not all as tense in each other’s company.

 

Oikawa won’t look at him. He’s standing next to Iwaizumi, when a week or go he had done all he could to be as far away as possible--  _ah._

 

Iwaizumi, on the other hand, is meeting his gaze directly. He’d always been that way - not caring for the natural order of things, not bothered about paying proper respects, never really hiding his dislike for someone. It’s admirable, in a fashion. Respectable, in the way one usually feels the need to acknowledge someone of the same ilk. But it’s also endlessly irritating to Daisho, because he is who he is and he  _demands_  respect. Daisho doesn’t like having him in his city again when he’d been so used to him not being here.

 

But oh well, needs must.

 

“Well?” is his imperious prompt, letting a little of that impatience show. Making the demand makes him feel better, especially when Iwaizumi takes the cue, reaching into the briefcase-like bag he’s carrying to pull out a folder.

 

Daisho sits forward a little, holding out for it, but instead Iwaizumi drops it onto the desk right beside his outstretched hand. Its landing disturbs the pens that had been so neatly lined up with the desk’s writing pad. Daisho looks down at it, bemused and then unimpressed, before rolling his eyes to stare up at Iwaizumi through his eyelashes, dark and intent with warning.

 

Predictably, Iwaizumi seems unruffled. Defiant.

 

Rolling his neck, Daisho lets the impertinence go for now, taking some satisfaction in the pleading glance Oikawa fires the other man. He picks up the folder and opens it.

 

The photo on the top isn’t explicit, as Mika had  _expressly_ promised him, but it still takes some effort to control his facial expression as his eyes settle on it. It’s her, alright. Smiling, free and easy despite her state of undress. By her hairstyle he can place the timeframe exactly - the year or so period when they’d been broken up, when his father hadn’t approved of her or her family and Daisho had succumbed to the pressure. So she hadn’t lied about the ‘when’ for sure. That’s a relief.

 

Five gazes burn at his face as he pulls the photos out and drops the empty folder on his desk. Slowly, he slides the first to the back of the - thankfully - very small pile.

 

The second is worse. Smiling, wrapped together. They look like they’re happy. Having fun. Daisho’s face feels stony even to him, even if he can feel the line of his mouth curve down slightly without any conscious decision to do so, heavy with the weight of what he’s looking at.

 

No one says a word, nor does anybody move - except for Daisho, who slides the second photo to the back to look at the last one.

 

“Hm.”

 

He can’t help the sound, brief as it is. It’s an involuntary reaction, just like the slight flicker of his facial muscles is.

 

Kissing. Still smiling. Miya Atsumu’s eyes are turned towards the camera - as if he  _knows_  - and for a moment Daisho feels a hot flash of anger, wishing he’d thrown caution to the wind and requested a slightly different solution to this entire problem.

 

It’s anger, but there’s more. Inexplicably there’s shame, and a sick, corrupt sense of embarrassment that he has  _never_ felt before in his life. If these had ever gotten out-- he doesn’t know what he would have had to have done to fix it. Men like him can’t show weakness. In a world like this, forgiveness can be a weakness. So there would be none; him and Mika would be over.

 

Even if she’d done no wrong really, Daisho is still angry at her. He could and would never put himself in such a position - and yet, she’d almost done it to him, and so, so easily. Without even considering the ramifications.

 

That’s a weakness too. People, and caring for them, are a weakness.

 

Had he suffered this humiliation in front of more than those present today, he doesn’t know how much angrier he’d be. He doesn’t know what would have happened to her, whether by his own intent or someone else’s as retribution on his behalf. She’s innocent - even _with_  the existence of these photos - and yet… And yet. Who knows what the consequences could have been.

 

Daisho doesn’t know, that’s for sure. And that scares him. Because he thinks he loves her, but he’s had that beaten out of him before. He barely even believed in love anymore, except maybe for her.

 

But between that one thing he has with her and everything else he has - everything else he  _is -_ he can’t say for sure what comes first. He doesn’t know what he would have done, had the result of Miya’s blackmail been any different.

 

She could have ruined  _everything_ , all because of her actions in a time when she wasn’t supposed to be tied to him at all. But he supposes she always will be. That’s what it is to get involved with a Daisho, after all. She could have gotten herself killed. And this is proof he can never, ever protect her from his cursed name, because he came so close to not being able to cover this up, not being able to protect her. And she’s his  _wife._ She’s doomed, like him, because she’s not just attached, she’s now a  _Daisho_ herself.

 

He forces himself to look away from the photos - and funnily enough, he seeks out Hajime’s gaze once more. He can feel Oikawa’s eyes on him, can imagine the look on his face, but at least he can rely on Iwaizumi to show no pity, no apprehension, no compassion. They have a mutual agreement on that kind of thing. Iwaizumi’s blatant lack of loyalty or respect towards him or anyone else outside of the four other people in this room is the main reason Daisho brought him here in the first place. The only one he could fully trust. A man who can’t be bought - he might be the only one in the city.

 

“And these were the only ones?”

 

Iwaizumi’s response is steady, cool, when it comes. Daisho appreciates it. “That’s what you told me on the phone last night,” he says, volleying back the responsibility of the worst case scenario, just like he had on the phone. Smart move. “But neither Hanamaki nor Matsukawa found any others in either location. Of her, I mean.”

 

Daisho nods.

 

“I see.”

 

He pushes back his chair with his feet, turning to pull his metal waste bin closer. That done, he pulls out a lighter from his pocket and flicking it open one-handed, he lifts the flame to the corner of the photographs and watches as it catches. He twists his wrist so the growing flames are pointing ceilingwards, watching as they slowly encroach down to engulf the prints to just beyond halfway. As they come closer to his fingers, he tosses what’s left into the can at his feet, leaving them to curl and smoulder, burn away completely to ashy remains.

 

“If copies of those surface  _anywhere_ , I will be holding all of you responsible,” he says finally, dragging his eyes from the black wisps of smoke polluting his office to slide them over each and every man present. “As agreed, any others uncovered are not on you,” because he  _has_ to take her word, even if it doesn’t sit well with him; even if he wants to burn every inch of that wretched casino down with Miya Atsumu inside just to  _ensure_  there’s nothing else. “But your silence regarding this issue is  _expected_ , not requested.”

 

They all nod - though at all different times, Iwaizumi last of all.

 

Daisho stands, pulling a handkerchief from his pocket to wipe his hands before stashing it back. He turns to the shelving unit behind him to pull out a folder of his own - inside is five sheets of paper, and he gives a copy each to the men one-by-one.

 

“For each of you,” he says needlessly. “I believe in fair payment in exchange for services rendered.”

 

He notices the waver in the apprentice’s expression when he sees the number at the bottom of the print. He huffs in amusement, knowing full well the lure of figures like that. Naturally, he ignores Iwaizumi’s reproachful stare.

 

“I believe that makes us even,” Daisho muses then, rounding his desk again to lower himself back into his chair. It’s a dismissal, as clear a one they’re going to get without him actually waving them out - which he refrains from doing if only to try and maintain some dignity.

 

Matsukawa, the most practical of all of them from what Daisho knows, nods and steps back. Hanamaki, Daisho’s  _least_ favorite personally because usually he just  _won’t_ shut up, tugs a little at the kid’s shoulder and the three of them head for the door.

 

Iwaizumi doesn’t move. He doesn’t even take his eyes away from Daisho. His gaze is steady - not cold, not calm, just ready for something.

 

“Ah,” Daisho says, leaning on an armrest. It doesn’t take much to connect the dots, especially with the way Oikawa hovers at the other man’s side.

 

Hanamaki lingers at the threshold. “Oikawa, are you-?”

 

He isn’t even finished before Oikawa shakes his head in a quick response, though it must at least partly be at the frowning Iwaizumi too, since that’s who he’s facing when he does it. Daisho casts a glance to the door as Hanamaki retreats, quiet for once, shutting it carefully behind him.

 

Daisho cocks his head to the side. “Interesting. What can I do for you, Hajime?”

 

 

 ♠ ♡ ♣ ♢ ♠ ♡ ♣ ♢ ♠ ♡ ♣ ♢ ♠ ♡ ♣ ♢

 

 

Kyoutani only makes his way down the corridor because Matsukawa and Hanamaki are  _pushing_ him along, towards the second-floor landing and the lobby’s ornate staircase. It’s the same one they’d climbed a couple of weeks ago, and as they approach the top of it, they pass the doors to the ballroom where the party had been held, closed today.

 

Apparently Daisho’s office is in the heart of the building, on the second floor where he probably has a few different possible exits if he needs them. Someone is waiting at the top of the stairs, stood at the railing that overlooks the gleaming marble lobby, ready to see them off. Clearly Daisho wants to make sure they leave.

 

“Are you sure they’ll be alright?” he asks, craning his neck over his shoulder to try and see the door they’d left through despite the herding.

 

“They’ll be fine.” It’s Matsukawa, calm at Kyoutani’s left shoulder.

 

They let him descend the staircase on his own - thankfully - and it isn’t until they’re clearing the hotel proper that Kyoutani vocalizes his worry again.

 

“How do you know?”

 

It’s Hanamaki this time, patting the top of his head in a move that  _should_  be condescending but isn’t. It feels a little like when Iwaizumi-san does it, albeit a little less comfortable. “Because they’ll look out for each other, like always.”

 

Kyoutani can tell that Hanamaki believes his own words, and he lets that convince him too as he climbs into their car after them.

 

 

 ♠ ♡ ♣ ♢ ♠ ♡ ♣ ♢ ♠ ♡ ♣ ♢ ♠ ♡ ♣ ♢

 

 

“I want to talk to you,” Hajime says, before casting his eyes over to Oikawa pointedly. “Privately.”

 

Tooru lets himself frown, leaning in a little closer to Hajime for at least  _some_ privacy when he insists in a hushed whisper, “I’m not going to let you do something stupid.”

 

Because this thing between them should always work both ways. They’d messed up on that before.

 

Oikawa turns to look at Daisho, who’s regarding them closely with his usual cool, assessing gaze. He’s always had the kind of eyes that look through you, but if last night’s talk with Hajime has given him one thing, it’s reassurance. Hajime’s right here with him, he’s not alone.

 

Oikawa meets that gaze.

 

Something flickers in Daisho’s eyes for a second - Oikawa is able to see it, but not to parse the meaning.

 

“You told him, then,” Daisho says at last. There’s very little inflection to the words; there’s not even a clear question there, never mind any indication of how he might feel about the fact.

 

It’s true that Tooru has always liked Daisho - he doesn’t agree with what he does or how he does it, but there’s always been something about him at a fundamental level that he liked. But that’s not to say he hasn’t also always keenly felt the aura of danger around him. Sometimes it’s easier to ignore, but it’s always there.

 

He thinks they might have the same core instincts. The same potential, which could have tilted either way, like there’s something equally desperate about them, maybe. Equally hungry. Tooru didn’t have the best time in his teens, clearly, and he knows from experience that he’ll do what it takes to survive - but he’s had nothing  _close_ to the life Daisho has endured. That’s why even trapped and bound by a debt he never asked for, Tooru could never hate him for it. Children learn from the people around them, and Daisho had  _his father._

 

Hajime, on the other hand, has never had that kind of connection with Daisho. He doesn’t empathize  _nor_  sympathize with him. He’s also not afraid of him. Or maybe he is - he’s good at hiding that kind of thing, Oikawa knows.

 

“You’ll talk to me, not him,” Iwaizumi says calmly. It’s too presumptuous, too sure of Daisho’s compliance to be a demand. He’s always had a way of calling the shots and seeming so sure of himself. Oikawa has forgotten what it’s so like to have that solid presence close to him; a stalwart dam to calm his own raging seas. It bolsters him as he observes.

 

Daisho takes a second, but eventually he flicks his eyes away from Oikawa to Iwaizumi. “Maybe. If I feel like it.”

 

 _Power plays._  Oikawa is partial to them himself on the job, but between these two it’s always been something else. A tug of war with him in the middle. It comes too close to what happened in the hotel suite yesterday and Oikawa tenses. He’s not a chess piece in a game, nor is he a prize to gloat over.

 

It’s about time he rediscovered his fucking backbone. He’s the one that knows each man best. He pulls a chair from against the wall to in front of Daisho’s desk, and when he sits down, he looks the businessman in the eye.

 

“We all know what this is about,” he says, and for once he doesn’t let himself be cowed into submission.

 

He’s Oikawa fucking Tooru. It’s so much easier to be that with Iwaizumi Hajime by his side.

 

“Yes, I told him,” he informs Daisho. “Iwa-chan, sit down.”

 

 _Iwa-chan._  It’s been a while, using it casually like that. It doesn’t feel wrong - the opposite, in fact. Daisho’s eyebrows twitch upwards ever so slightly - for just a split second - at the nickname.

 

Iwa-chan sighs, put upon, probably pissed that his entire plan has been railroaded. Still, he does as he’s told, pulling up the other chair and collapsing into it once it’s beside Tooru’s.

 

“Welcome back,” he murmurs without looking at him, and Oikawa smiles.

 

Daisho watches them, still leant to one side, looking relaxed. “You want to negotiate a deal,” he announces, to Iwaizumi this time.

 

As much as Oikawa hates them discussing it over him, it’s the only way Daisho will allow it to be done. He’s too close to this, and Daisho knows he has nothing to bargain with.

 

Oikawa watches them watch each other, conducting a silent conversation between them that he can’t decipher. It’s a stalemate that lasts a few seconds too long until Hajime shrugs.

 

It’d look casual, if Oikawa didn’t know this entire thing was a front. He can’t deny it’s a little thrilling to watch, because Hajime is  _good_  at this kind of thing and so often he looks unassuming; gets written off as unremarkable. But turning the tide of fortune is where he shines. He’s the most fascinating thing on this earth to Tooru.

 

“I believe the terms were already decided, and I have fulfilled my side of the deal,” he says - and what? Oikawa can’t help but turn in his seat to see the other man better, wondering what he means by that.

 

“What did you do,” he asks, intonation flattened by the weight of his rapidly increasing dread.

 

Iwa-chan glances at him. “The job,” he says, and Oikawa feels himself deflate. He’d already started constructing wild fantasies about Iwaizumi doing some reprehensible side-job, about there being  _more_ secrets and lies in the gulf between them. But two words from Iwa-chan and those worries vanish, because he believes him.

 

Daisho snorts, as if to say  _try harder._

 

“You got your payment for the job,” he simpers, eyes sharp but mouth curling. He’s  _amused._  Neither Iwaizumi nor Daisho have ever been able to resist going head-to-head with each other. Daisho hasn’t missed Hajime, Oikawa knows, but maybe he’s missed the challenge.

 

“You told me I had a chance to clear a debt by being here and taking this job,” Hajime fires back, still slouched easily in the chair. “You told me not to fuck it up – those were the terms you provided. I didn’t.”

 

Tooru can’t help but stare, eyes going between the two of them. Because apparently Iwaizumi and Daisho had a conversation at some point, and it was about him. Because apparently Iwa-chan’s plan (or at least his plan A) really  _was_ to talk to him. Or at least half-ask, half-demand him to let it go – semantics, really.

 

The curl at Daisho’s mouth ticks up a notch, and he rolls his eyes, gaze landing on the top of his desk as he reaches a hand out to rearrange his stupid fucking pens. The ones Iwa-chan had messed up on purpose – a move on the chessboard. This is a game to Daisho - Oikawa can see it plain as day. He just doesn’t know what end result the man is dancing around.

 

“A chance while you were here, yes,” he concedes with a genial shrug. “However, it was never stated explicitly that the ‘chance’ was the favor you did for me. Nor what the debt was.”

 

Oikawa has seen the look currently on Iwaizumi’s face only a handful of times in the years he’s known him. It’s intense concentration and utter conviction at the same time. This is Iwaizumi Hajime deadly serious, with no holds barred, and Tooru knows behind the cool facade of complete calm, his mind is working overtime. Iwa-chan has always been  _fantastic_ at bluffing, running simulations of possible solutions and improvising until he gets out of a sticky situation with favorable odds. He can’t imagine this is a part of himself Iwaizumi has used much in these past few years, if at all - the fact he’s using it after so long for  _him_  makes Tooru’s heart beat faster. When he’s like this, Iwa-chan rarely loses.

 

“If we’re over-analyzing, then the wording - _‘a’_  debt - insinuates it’s my choice. So, I’m picking this bullshit thing you’re holding over Oikawa’s head.”

 

In a flash Daisho’s face darkens, and he’s sitting forward in his chair, those eery, cold eyes fast on Hajime.

 

“Be careful what you call bullshit, Iwaizumi,” he warns.

 

The death of his father is no light matter, after all.

 

“I didn’t mean what you think I meant,” Hajime returns, with a subtle roll of his eyes. “I’m referring to how you’ve let Oikawa think it was all because of him this whole time when we both know it wasn’t.”

 

Oikawa doesn’t dare say a word in objection or indignation right now, he’s too busy holding his breath.

 

Daisho says nothing in return, but his eyes narrow dangerously, his expression close to murderous. Oikawa itches to reach out to Iwaizumi; instead he lets his hand wrap around the armrest of his own chair. Iwaizumi shrugs.

 

“It was all for your own sake.”

 

There’s no way Daisho can let that go. “What are you implying?” and Oikawa has  _never_  heard Daisho sound like that. Not at the cemetery years ago, not the other morning when he’d put Oikawa back in his place on the terrace.

 

Hajime is unaffected. “What do you think I’m implying?” he returns, slow and calm - possibly to infuriate Daisho even more, or perhaps to make the other man look like the one getting bested in this exchange.

 

Oikawa doesn’t know what it means when Daisho flickers a quickfire glance his way. Before he can decipher it, his eyes immediately snap back to Hajime - in instinct, as if he’s  _finally_  found a threat worthy to be cautious of. One that he can’t keep his eyes off for too long.

 

Oikawa doesn’t understand right now, but he’s not stupid. He’ll catch up eventually.

 

“I’m talking about what you inherited, of course” Iwaizumi says, but in a breezy way that suggests that isn’t exactly it. “I’m talking about how it was always going to happen eventually, and that you were already at least somewhat prepared to do it.”

 

That’s not news to Tooru. Daisho had  _always_  hated his father - it was easy for Tooru to see in the way he looked at him, and in the way he held himself while in the elder man’s presence. Oikawa knows what it is to feel all those ugly, poisonous emotions. He knows what it looks like. Daisho had even said, from under his umbrella on that miserable day:  _I had plans that needed to be adjusted_. ‘Adjusted’ being the key word.

 

Oikawa has always known Daisho had already been planning to get rid of his father, one way or another, before that day.

 

Daisho is composed when he slowly sits back in his chair, crossing one leg over the over. “Even if that had been the case, the great inconvenience of it all remains,” he reminds them, turning his gaze to Oikawa, who forces himself to meet it straight on. He’s so ready to stop feeling guilt over this; it wasn’t like he was the one who pulled the trigger.

 

Hajime laughs, a short, breathy thing that speaks of no real amusement at all.

 

“I don’t doubt it was  _inconvenient,_ ” he acknowledges, and Oikawa’s eyes widen a little as he predicts what comes next: “and yet you did it anyway, on that specific day and in that specific situation. I wonder why.”

 

Thin eyebrows come down as Daisho sends a pointed frown Iwaizumi’s way. “It was a decent enough opportunity--”

 

It doesn’t matter that Iwaizumi’s got him to go back on what he’d just said about it being an inconvenience. Tooru’s catching on, and that’s not the trap Iwaizumi has corralled him into with the fewest amount of words possible - he’s going for something much more personal, something Oikawa is finding it hard to believe.

 

“You still could have waited for whatever  _convenient_ time,” Iwaizumi cuts him off with, his voice smooth because he  _knows_ he has Daisho. “But you did it right then, and we all know why. Is it really that hard for you to admit it?”

 

The question rings off in the air in the seconds after it. Daisho tilts his chin up, dark hair slipping from its usual perfect styling to fall over one eye as he looks down his nose at Iwaizumi.

 

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” is his cold, cold reply.

 

“I’ll save you the trouble, then. Make it easier for you to wave this whole farce away,” Hajime responds easily, as if he’d been ready for a response of that kind. He probably has been. For him, just the  _knowledge_  of a checkmate is enough.

 

He reaches back into the bag and pulls out that second folder; the one Oikawa had confronted him with earlier this morning. He half-stands from the chair, taking a step forward to actually hand it to Daisho this time.

 

Daisho eyes him but accepts the offering, opening it up and raising a thin eyebrow. “And this is?”

 

Iwa-chan shrugs, sitting back down in his chair. “Probably exactly what it looks like. You’d know the specifics of it all better than me, though.”

 

His decision to stay quiet instead of attempt to mediate the volatile atmosphere is a conscious one: Oikawa knows that Iwaizumi hasn’t quite moved to plan B. Instead he’s improvising, mixing it with plan A. Right now, he can’t interrupt.

 

Daisho actually laughs. Apparently Iwaizumi’s intention to blackmail him is funny. It’s not exactly Iwaizumi’s forte, after all.

 

But, Oikawa thinks, it’s actually perfect that way. Because Hajime isn’t the type to blackmail people or hoard damning knowledge over their heads - not like, say, Daisho or even Miya. Iwaizumi doesn’t hold grudges, at least not to the extent of it being a threat or in any way destructive: he just dislikes people and that’s about as far as it goes. If his terms are met and honored, he won’t do a damn thing with the information Makki retrieved from the Miya brothers’ safe. Blackmail might be a dirty, dishonorable move, but Iwaizumi will at least protect and observe its terms.

 

Of all the people Daisho could  _ever_  be blackmailed by, Iwaizumi Hajime is probably the best possible option.

 

“You know as well as I do that I don’t care about any of that shit,” Iwa-chan says with a vague wave towards the folder in Daisho’s hand, basically confirming everyone’s line of thought. “Just consider it insurance that you’ll keep to your word. All I want is everyone in this room squared, all debts and any other bullshit settled and done with. That’s it.”

 

Daisho closes the manila folder and rests his hand atop the cover. He surveys Iwaizumi for a stretch of time, trying to see something that Oikawa thinks he’ll never find.

 

“What’s your next move?” Daisho asks. It’s not a rejection; it’s curiosity.

 

Iwa-chan sits forward, and Oikawa knows it’s so that he can reach behind himself to his waistband if he needs to. He doesn’t though. He just rests his hands on his knees and meets Daisho’s gaze just as easily as he has all day.

 

“Think about what  _you_  did for him, and then consider what  _I_  would be willing to do,” is his answer, and it sends a shiver up Oikawa’s spine.

 

Daisho stares at him intensely for two, three seconds, before he laughs. “That’s big talk for someone who skipped town,” he says.

 

Tooru thinks it’s so interesting - this antagonistic relationship Daisho has with Iwaizumi. Where it comes from, what fuels it, he’s not entirely sure. He thinks it’s at least partly instinctual, the exact opposite of the core pull Oikawa feels towards Daisho on whatever level; but at the same time, Oikawa isn’t so naive to think it’s absolutely nothing to do with him.  Daisho  _hates_  Iwa-chan, but he can’t deny his skills or the fact that he respects him. He’s never liked him and because of that, he’s never been a fan of him and Oikawa being together, either. Because Daisho  _does_ like Oikawa and has always thought he deserved better, whatever that was - Oikawa knows that strange, base thing between them is reciprocated. Daisho cares about him, Oikawa has seen proof.

 

He hates Iwaizumi, but even so, Oikawa knows that Daisho thinks he should have gone with Iwa-chan when he’d been asked. Mostly because it’s what Tooru himself wanted. Daisho thinks he made a mistake, but he also knows he’s the very reason Oikawa didn’t -  _couldn’t_  - go.

 

Nothing about him makes sense.

 

“Promise me you won’t move back into my city and we have a deal,” Daisho is saying, standing and stretching his hand over his desk for Iwaizumi to shake, and Oikawa can’t believe this is all it’s going to take. That it was this  _easy._

 

Iwaizumi snorts as if to agree wholeheartedly, but then after a second, he looks over to Oikawa.

 

He feels his face erupt into flustered heat at the implication of that look, but forces himself to meet Iwa-chan’s eyes. “This city isn’t all that great, anyway.”

 

Iwaizumi slots his hand into Daisho’s. “Deal.”

 

 

 ♠ ♡ ♣ ♢ ♠ ♡ ♣ ♢ ♠ ♡ ♣ ♢ ♠ ♡ ♣ ♢

 

 

Daisho can’t believe he’s been manoeuvred with such disrespect, and yet he’s not mad at all. If he has to concede to someone in his lifetime, he supposes it can be Iwaizumi Hajime.

 

The man nods at him and then buttons his jacket. When he turns to head for the door, Oikawa rests a hand on his forearm. Daisho hears him ask Iwaizumi to wait outside, tell him he’ll be right out.

 

To his credit, Iwaizumi does as is requested, leaving only the briefest glance over his shoulder as he shuts the door behind him.

 

Daisho’s eyes linger there for a moment, before they’re pulled to Tooru. He looks more familiar, suddenly. There’s a light in his eyes that has come back over the course of this meeting, as if he’s remembered his own fierce mind, just as capable - if not more so - of pulling off something like what Hajime had just done. That fight in him had dimmed, and Daisho had done it. He hadn’t even acknowledged that, missed it, until now. Tooru opens his mouth to speak, and Daisho has a second to wonder what’s coming.

 

“You’re so full of shit.”

 

It’s not that.

 

Daisho cocks a brow at him.

 

“You’ve let me think that everything I’ve done was for good reason. You let me think that favor was real,” Oikawa says, and despite himself, Daisho’s heart starts to beat faster. He can’t identify why, though. “You’ve never once said anything about it, not since the funeral, but you let it control me this whole time.”

 

Daisho watches him. He can’t look away. This is the rebirth of Oikawa Tooru, the one he knew years ago. It’s fascinating.

 

“The only time you ever mentioned it was the other morning on the terrace,” Oikawa says slowly, and Daisho watches his eyes move from side to side, as he connects the dots in his head. He stays still. “To make sure I did the job with Iwa-chan and the others.”

 

“I wanted the best people on the job,” Daisho tells him.

 

Oikawa laughs, a short exhale of air that isn’t really a laugh at all. “Yes, but that wasn’t all it was, was it?”

 

Daisho rests his fingertips on the gleaming surface of the glass desktop, letting them support some of his wait as he looks up at Tooru through his lashes.

 

“You did something for non-business reasons,” Oikawa says slowly, big brown eyes boring into Daisho’s, “that day - you did that for me, didn’t you? And you didn’t want anyone to find out, not even me, so you twisted it to your own advantage.”

 

He won’t say a thing to confirm nor deny that conjecture. Oikawa can think whatever he damn well wants.

 

“So what was this job all about?” Tooru demands. “You regretted saying that to me at the cemetery?” He laughs, shaking his head like he can’t believe it. “Why didn’t you just _tell_  me? Did you really have to make such a production out of it?”

 

Distantly, Suguru thinks of Iwaizumi’s words from just a few minutes ago:  _is it really that hard for you to admit it?_

 

 _Admit what,_  Daisho thinks, somewhat rebelliously. Daisho Suguru doesn’t have  _friends._ He just has people that are tied to him, whether that’s for better or worse. That’s how it’s always been. That’s what he’s always told himself. That’s safer, for everyone - including himself.

 

Oikawa takes the couple of steps forward needed to bring him right to the opposite side of the desk. He dips his head a little to look Daisho in the eyes.

 

“You  _are_  my friend,” he says, as if he knows exactly what Daisho’s thinking, while also sounding like he’s confirming a long-held suspicion. “You care about me.”

 

 

“I brought him back here because I needed him for the job,” he says steadily. “That’s all. Whatever else came from it is nothing to do with me.”

 

Oikawa doesn’t believe him. It’s always been so easy to look at his face and see everything he’s feeling. The look in his eyes is fierce and deep with affection and gratitude, and Daisho-- Daisho feels  _threatened_ by it. But the hands that reach out to take hold of his wrists don’t hurt him. They’re gentle.

 

So is Oikawa’s voice, when he says, “Thank you. I love you too, Suguru.”

 

And then he turns around to leave the room, and Daisho wonders if he’ll ever see him again. All he knows is what he  _hopes_  the answer is.

 

He thinks he’ll miss him.

 

 

 ♠ ♡ ♣ ♢ ♠ ♡ ♣ ♢ ♠ ♡ ♣ ♢ ♠ ♡ ♣ ♢

 

 

Every instinct inside of Hajime rails against leaving Oikawa alone with Daisho, but he was asked to. And anyway, if there’s one good thing that’s come from their separation, it’s the knowledge that Tooru really doesn’t need Hajime looking out for him all the time. He’s plenty strong enough on his own.

 

So he settles against the wall with his hands in his pockets, and waits. There’s a guy in a suit opposite him, stood by the door and watching him. Hajime ignores it, eyes trained straight ahead, waiting impatiently for Oikawa to come out.

 

It takes a few minutes, but eventually the door is pulled open and Oikawa steps back over the threshold. Hajime allows himself a moment to check over every inch of him. He looks fine.

 

Daisho doesn’t see him out, and Oikawa doesn’t cast a glance behind himself or even bother to shut the door. Instead he looks at Hajime and cocks his head towards the end of the hallway, and when he starts to head that way Hajime pushes himself off the wall and falls into step beside him.

 

They’re silent as they head down the stairs side by side; it isn’t until they’re halfway across the lobby’s immaculate floor that Iwaizumi looks at him.

 

“You have the  _worst_ taste in friends,” he mutters, just to break the silence and the tension.

 

There’s a twitch of a smile at the other man’s mouth, and then Iwaizumi casts his eyes to the relaxed slope of Oikawa’s shoulders.

 

“You’re not mad at him,” he observers.

 

Brown eyes slide to the side to appraise him.

 

“No,” Oikawa says slowly. They walk through the doors and down the steps at the front of the beautiful building, wordlessly heading to the gleaming Chevy waiting for them across the small lot. “He was trying to fix a mistake, I think. I should have realized he didn’t mean it sooner. It’s my fau--”

 

“No,” Hajime says, reaching out to grasp Oikawa’s wrist to stop him from casting the blame on himself. “Just stop it. We dealt with it; it’s done.”

 

Oikawa looks into his eyes, the beautiful chocolate shade of his irises gleaming in the sunlight and looking almost gold. “Yeah,” he murmurs, stepping closer. Iwaizumi is lost in him, but he still feels the fingertips ghosting across his cheekbone. “Iwa-chan is always rescuing me, huh?”

 

He tries to suppress a shudder and tilts his head just slightly. “Are you pissed at me?”

 

When Oikawa smiles, it’s a small, tremulous thing. It’s breath-taking. “Not at all, Iwa-chan.”

 

Hajime drops his wrist gently. “You’ve kind of been mad at me for weeks now, though,” he murmurs, mostly teasing though it’s a true enough statement.

 

There’s the soft scuff of leather soles on asphalt as Oikawa steps around Iwaizumi, continuing to head towards the Monte Carlo.

 

“Yeah, because even if you were late, even if it was because of someone else, you still came when I needed you. How am I ever supposed to get over you?”

 

They climb into the car, the leather interior warmed by the midday sun. Iwaizumi slots the key into the ignition and twists it to bring the engine to life. As the behemoth warms up with its customary loud rumble, he allows himself a moment to turn his head and look at Oikawa.

 

He looks like he belongs there, sitting in the passenger seat -  _his_  seat – like nothing’s changed. Because he  _does_  belong there. Hajime had forgotten exactly how it makes him feel, to see Oikawa sitting right beside him, but now he wants to make sure to commit the sight to memory. Better yet, he wants to see it for himself again and again. Every day. Just like before.

 

Long, clever fingers skitter over the top of the dash, across the silver latch for the glovebox, the inside of the passenger door, as if Oikawa needs to touch everything to remember it again. His lips are pressed together as he does so, his eyes soft.

 

He must sense Hajime’s gaze, because he glances to the side to meet it.

 

There’s a million thing Iwaizumi wants to say, but he settles for this:

 

“Want to go for a drive?”

 

The windows are rolled down, and the breeze whips their hair as the Chevy takes a long, meandering route through the city and around its limits that they’ve taken a million times before.

 

There’s no radio; no conversation to disturb the tentative air of peace around them. Oikawa pulls out his phone at one point, presumably sending a text to their friends, letting them know they’re fine. Still, Hajime doesn’t head back in that direction, nor does Oikawa ask him to. Iwaizumi just drives and lets them both have this - a long overdue opportunity for calm; for thinking; for being together in an uncomplicated way.

 

Everything’s still a little fucked, but it’s still infinitesimally better than before. It might never be perfect, and it’ll certainly never be like before. But that’s fine, because neither of them are the same, either. In some messed up way, everything that happened was probably for the best - they hadn’t known what it was to be apart from each other as adults. Now they know a little more about themselves, know a little more about how special it is to be together.

 

There’s a look-out point outside the city they’ve been to a few times - Hajime ends up over that way unconsciously so he keeps going, the car climbing higher and higher until they reach the isolated spot. There’s no one else around, unsurprising for the early afternoon, so he pulls up close to the fence, the wide snout of the Monte Carlo only a few meters from the safety barrier. He kills the engine and they sit there for a few minutes.

 

Eventually, Oikawa breaks the stillness by opening his door and climbing out. Iwaizumi follows.

 

They end up standing at the fence, observing the vista of the city sprawled before them. Up here it feels so far away, too far to see any of its ugliness. It’s spectacular at night when all the bright lights illuminate the city’s mass and make it look alive, glamorous, but even during the day it’s a sight to see.

 

“I’m sorry you had to come back,” Oikawa says without looking at him.

 

Iwaizumi lets his eyes track over the city slowly, taking it in.

 

“I’m not.” His hands curl around the top slat of the fence, the wood sun-warmed and smoothed by time and the elements. “I left some important things behind.”

 

And he’s not just talking about Oikawa. The unfinished business with him and what they had is obvious, but it’s not the only thing. He’s referring to Hanamaki and Matsukawa, too. They might have stayed in (sporadic) contact, but aside from that, he’d more or less cut them out, too. Even Irihata, with whom he traded bland, obligatory letters, had been virtually abandoned by Iwaizumi. In all those people, and also in his memories and connections with the city itself, had been pieces of himself that had been lost.

 

Iwaizumi wanted to leave that less-than-legitimate lifestyle, and he had. But in his desperation to do so, he’d neglected parts of himself - parts of himself that weren’t  _all_ bad - to atrophy and die off. He’d grown close to Kyoutani, but he’d been closed off to almost everyone else. He’d been so overwhelmed by a sense of loss and isolation that he hadn’t even realized that a lot of it (most of it) had been his own fault.

 

He’d made a hard decision but he hadn’t even committed to it fully. He’s been fucking martyring himself the whole time: unable to confront and make right the mistakes he made and the shitty way he handled the whole thing, but also unwilling to let it go fully and move on.

 

Tightening his grip, he takes a breath. He thinks they’re on the same page but taking the leap has always been scary.

 

“Do you think there’s hope for us?”

 

When he risks turning his head to look, Oikawa is stunning. Away from the clogged air of the city and free from the shackles of a pseudo debt, he looks lighter. Here, standing under the endless blue sky, he looks  _free_.

 

“Iwa-chan has always made me feel safe and terrified at the same time” Oikawa says, a nervous but relieved smile on his face when he turns to Hajime. He isn’t sure if Oikawa is explaining what he means, or simply just answering his previous question when he continues, “when we’re together, I feel like we can do anything.”

 

He pulls Oikawa into an embrace, bowing his own head until his forehead nestles into the crook between the other man’s neck and shoulder. He knows exactly what Oikawa means. Part of him calls to Oikawa,  _needs_  him. But that need, as amazing as it can be when it’s satisfied, is worrying in its ability to consume him if it goes wrong. They belong together, he knows, but how terrifying is that - to find the other half of yourself, to know you’re complete only with them?

 

The two of them had always feared it, probably, and now they know just how easily it can all be lost. It almost ruined them. But now they’re here again, together. Oikawa holds him back just as tightly, and Iwaizumi can hear him take in a shuddering breath before pressing his own face into Hajime’s neck.

 

They stand there, wrapped in each other, for a long time.

 

 

 ♠ ♡ ♣ ♢ ♠ ♡ ♣ ♢ ♠ ♡ ♣ ♢ ♠ ♡ ♣ ♢

 

 

They take the kid out to eat, answer his questions about how exactly Daisho knew his bank details (answers which basically amount to  _because he just does_ ) and even peruse the aisles of a drug-store debating the merits of various at-home hair-bleaching kits. Kyoutani’s a little more relaxed after that, which is a blessing since when they head back over to Oikawa’s house, there’s a small mound of bags by the gate.

 

Bags which, apparently, contain all of Iwaizumi and Kyoutani’s things from the hotel. Hanamaki’s got to give credit where credit’s due - Daisho is the  _King_  of petty. It’s kind of amazing, he thinks, as he watches a mutinous Kyoutani store them all in the backseat to take up the drive.

 

Whistling as he steps through the door of the house, Hanamaki swings his keys around his index finger. After the initial ‘we’re alive, everything’s good’ text, there’s been no word from Iwaizumi or Oikawa - not that he’s really surprised. They need to spend more time together, figure out where they’re going from here. Maybe then he, Matsukawa and Kyoutani will know what the fuck they’re gonna do, too.

 

But for now, he guesses babysitting duties continue. Not that he really minds. It’s kind of fun to hang out with someone new. And someone so reactive.

 

Matsukawa sheds his jacket and collapses in his usual spot on the sofa, turning on Oikawa’s TV which is already set on his favourite channel. That dumb reality series he loves watching is marathoning. Again.

 

Kyouken is weirdly defensive and then hesitant when Hanamaki offers to help with his hair, but eventually he gives in. It’s all thanks to Hanamaki’s intrinsic and never-failing charm, probably. He’s shaping up to be a  _great_ uncle. Well - not like a  _great uncle_ , just a regular uncle, but just - a really, really good one.

 

In fact, he’s just a great person - not to mention an especially caring friend, because even though he decides to perform identity-reconstructive hair surgery in the living room (Oikawa would disapprove), he lays towels down on the couch where he’s sitting and on the floor below to protect Oikawa’s abnormally-neat and stain-free house (which Oikawa would at least appreciate).

 

Kyoutani’s sits criss-cross on the floor between Hanamaki’s splayed legs, shoulders up and hands clenched around his knees, but relaxes in notable increments as Hanamaki applies the hair bleach and rubs it in.

 

At some point he lets out an unconscious hum as his shoulders drop a little more, and Matsukawa looks at whatever expression the kid’s making and then meets Hanamaki’s eyes and smiles.

 

Kyoutani always seems to be on guard, always alert in case something happens. There’s been a couple of occasions where Hanamaki’s been able to prod and distract him out of it, but it’s clear that he’s uncomfortable here. That’s understandable. There are a lot of unknowns. Hanamaki feels them too; he’s maybe just able to handle them a little better. Kyoutani might be older than they were back in the day, but Hanamaki thinks that’s just longer to be without a support system. He and the others were shitty, messed up teenagers, but at least they had each other. Kyoutani only met Iwaizumi recently.

 

Even so, he bets that the kid forgotten what it was like, to be so on edge all the time. He imagines that for someone like Kyoutani to be so close to Iwaizumi says a lot about how secure Iwaizumi has made him feel. That too Hanamaki understands. Hajime’s pretty good at that.

 

“Alright,” he croons, elongating the word to a near-ridiculous level as he pulls off his gloves and takes the disposable shower-cap in hand, settling it over the younger man’s head. “We got the strongest one we could find, so it’ll itch like hell,” not that he’s under any impression that Kyoutani isn’t more than familiar with the bleaching process, “but you’re gonna have to leave it on for a while if you want the dark color to lift. We can try toning it after if it looks  _really_  shitty.”

 

Kyoutani’s rough fingers come up to readjust the elastic line of the cap a little, before he twists atop his towel to face him. “Thanks,” he grumbles, clearly feeling like he should meet Hanamaki’s eyes but not quite being able to do it.

 

Hanamaki grins, patting him on the head so the mixture in his hair squelches a little under the plastic covering. God, he loves this kid.

 

“No problemo.”

 

There’s this weird moment where Kyoutani turns back to face the TV and neither of them move. Kyoutani doesn’t get up and Hanamaki doesn’t tell him to. He glances down at the kid and then at Mattsun, who shrugs.

 

Hanamaki shrugs back, and then collapses back into the cushion but otherwise keeps the position, the inside of his knees against Kyoutani’s upper arms. He’s watching the TV, but after a couple of minutes he sees Kyoutani relax out of the corner of his eye and settle a little more against the couch.

 

A warm hand slides over his own, and Hanamaki smiles, turning his palm up so Matsukawa can link their fingers together. All they’re missing is Romeo and Juliet, now, and then they’ll be good.

 

He has no idea what will happen, but Hanamaki’s always been more or less happy to go with the flow. He and Issei have discussed it: other than Oikawa, there’s nothing tying them here. They don’t own property, and Matsukawa’s business is online. Takahiro can do whatever. He foresees a big change coming, and to him it’s worth it - Iwaizumi and Oikawa haven’t been the only ones to find the past few years tough. And hell if he hasn’t gotten attached to the kid.

 

As far as Hanamaki’s concerned, so long as they agree to stick together, all five of them, there’s nothing to be worried about.

 

 

 ♠ ♡ ♣ ♢ ♠ ♡ ♣ ♢ ♠ ♡ ♣ ♢ ♠ ♡ ♣ ♢

 

 

A long bleach and toning session later, Kyoutani’s hair is closer to where he feels it rightly should be. It’s still a slightly unattractive shade of orange, but Hanamaki had insisted he wait a while to bleach it again unless he ‘wanted all his hair to fall out, dumb-dumb’. Kyoutani’s hardly an expert - he barely redoes his roots before they look ridiculous - but Hanamaki’s hair is in pretty good condition, so he takes his word for it.

 

They watch TV for a little while longer, Kyoutani long-since having gone through his remaining cigarettes, when Iwaizumi and Oikawa return. The front door opens and there’s the murmuring of a conversation before they step into the main room. They seem… fine. Pretty neutral.

 

Kyoutani can’t tear his eyes from them though, even if he’s trying to be casual about it. He’s looking for any little indication of how they’re doing, what they’ve decided to do now.

 

Iwaizumi doesn’t give anything away in the few seconds he’s in the room - pretty much right away he’s heading towards the back of the house. Oikawa settles down on the other couch, asks them what they’re watching, which initiates a bland conversation that’s much too casual for how desperate the rest of them are to know what happened.

 

When Iwaizumi returns, it’s without his suit jacket and with his shirt sleeves rolled up. He stands in the space between the two couches, glances at the empty cigarette carton on the coffee table and then at Kyoutani. “Wanna smoke?” he asks.

 

Kyoutani blinks. “...Sure.”

 

He gets waved ahead so Kyoutani leads the way, unsure what’s going on as he slides open the door and steps onto the veranda. It’s past early evening by now, the clear sky darkening, vivid colours bleeding into one another before they eventually morph into an all-encompassing inky black later.

 

As he sits on the edge of the platform, he hears the soft slide of the door shutting behind him, muffling the sounds of the TV and making the outside space an oddly private bubble.

 

Iwaizumi sighs as he sits next to him, closer than Oikawa had that morning, nudging him in the shoulder as he offers one of his Lucky Strikes. Kyoutani takes it, and then the lighter too once Iwaizumi’s done with it. They’re silent for a while, each taking their first long drag and then releasing it out into the air.

 

“It’s been a tough time for you lately,” Iwaizumi says eventually, and Kyoutani just watches the cigarette held between his own fingers smoulder where it hangs in the space between his knees. “I’m sorry.”

 

Kyoutani doesn’t snort. He knows it’s a genuine apology. It’s still unnecessary though.

 

“‘S fine,” he murmurs, lifting his hand so that when he flicks the ash from the cigarette, the majority of it vanishes in the cool evening breeze.

 

His mentor hums. “It’s not,” he argues gently, but he’s not done, “but I’m grateful you were here anyway.”

 

There’s another stretched pause where they both continue to smoke, and Kyoutani can’t stop himself from asking any longer.

 

“Hanamaki read out your text. Did you really come to a deal? Is it—”

 

Iwaizumi lifts his hand and drops it onto Kyoutani’s newly-dyed locks.

 

“Everything’s gonna be fine, Kentarou.”

 

And that’s as far as that conversation goes. Hanamaki and Matsukawa head out a little while later, wanting to sleep in their own beds now the deal is finally done, though Hanamaki loudly complains for at least thirty minutes about ‘Fussykawa’ making them strip the bed and change the sheets – apparently Oikawa really  _is_  a neat freak.

 

Iwaizumi tells him to take the now-free spare room. Kentarou thinks about insisting the other man take it, but Iwaizumi-san fixes him with his patent stare and well, Kyoutani really would like to sleep in a bed again. Plus, it might only be a room in Oikawa’s house, but it’d be some well-needed privacy, too. He takes it, and thinks maybe he’ll get himself a room somewhere if they stay much longer.

 

Once he’s settled in the fresh sheets, there’s not much else to do but think back over the conversation with Iwaizumi earlier, and he wonders what Iwaizumi meant by that last thing. He can’t sleep. He can’t help but hear it as a goodbye.

 

 

 ♠ ♡ ♣ ♢ ♠ ♡ ♣ ♢ ♠ ♡ ♣ ♢ ♠ ♡ ♣ ♢

 

 

Iwaizumi can’t sleep either. He’s been tossing and turning on this dumb couch, trying his best to drift off but his mind’s being assaulted with raging thoughts and questions he can’t calm right now. He and Oikawa might have settled some things, but by no means are they any closer to an answer regarding what will happen. Even with Oikawa’s words in Daisho’s office, Hajime can’t help but wonder – is it fair to take Oikawa away from here, away from the life he’s established? It’s hardly fair to assume that he’ll give everything up just for Iwaizumi when he hasn’t really proven himself worthy of that these past few years.

 

He’s just debating giving up on the attempt at rest altogether – maybe he’ll grab his cigarettes and go for a smoke – when there’s soft footsteps, movement at the doorway.

 

A pause, and then:

 

“Iwa-chan?”

 

It’s soft, a little hesitant as it floats through the dark of the room to reach him. Iwaizumi pushes himself up onto his elbows and then sits up a little more, so he can look over the back of the couch.

 

“Yeah,” he tells Oikawa, running a hand through his hair, “I’m awake.”

 

Another pause.

 

Hajime can just barely see the other’s silhouette where it lingers at the doorway; he thinks Oikawa might be holding onto the doorframe with one hand. He squints to try to see him better, and his form solidifies a little.

 

“You alright?”

 

A sigh. “Yeah, fine, just—” Iwaizumi can practically  _hear_ Oikawa fidget, but he just waits him out. Eventually, the other speaks up again: “I was just. The couch can’t be comfortable, right?”

 

He doesn’t dare say a word in response, heart pounding.

 

Apparently he doesn’t have to, because Oikawa seems to have rallied himself. “So, if you want – and if you don’t, that’s fine – but I was thinking, maybe we could ...share. Like before.”

 

It’s not a seduction. It’s not even a loaded suggestion – there’s none of  _that_ particular edge to it at all. But still, it’s needy; a request for something. Intimacy, Iwaizumi thinks. Connection. He understands all that Oikawa’s asking and all that he isn’t, too.

 

“Yeah,” Hajime says, voice scratchy and heart beating far too fast. “Yeah, okay.”

 

He slowly rises from the couch, leaving the sheets to be dealt with in the morning. Now, he follows Oikawa, who has already started to retreat back to his bedroom.

 

The door has been left open a crack from when he came to give the invitation, and Iwaizumi tries not to look at that slice of light as anything more than it is. Even so, when he follows Oikawa across the threshold, it feels warmer. Safer.

 

Tooru won’t look at him as he climbs back into his side of the bed – the same he’s always taken – and Hajime closes the door behind himself before padding around to the opposite side. As he pulls back the sheets the room is plunged into darkness, Tooru’s long arm reaching over to the lamp on his bedside table. It makes it easier for Hajime to slide into the bed, to enter this precious, intimate place.

 

His head settles on the pillow and he just lays there on his back, barely daring to move. There’s shuffling beside him, and from the way the mattress dips, Hajime can tell Tooru has settled on his side. If he turns his head, he knows he’ll be able to see Tooru’s big brown eyes despite the lack of light. They’d always been so easy to seek out.

 

Moments pass; Hajime counts his breaths and lets his eyes roam over the ceiling, boundaryless in the dark of night.

 

“I’m sorry about Atsumu,” Oikawa says finally, and it’s clear in the way he says it that he’s wanted to speak those words for a while.

 

Still, Iwaizumi has a response ready. “Don’t apologize.”

 

He can hear Oikawa’s small sigh, everything amplified in the stillness.

 

“I’m serious,” Hajime murmurs, resisting the urge to shift around but only just. “You weren’t cheating on me. You were well within your right to.” And it’s true, even if it tastes bitter on his tongue to admit it. “It’s got nothing to do with me.”

 

A hand slithers out from beneath the sheets to rest on Hajime’s forearm. When Oikawa laughs it’s more breath than sound. “Iwa-chan, it has everything to do with you.”

 

...Yeah. Yeah, he knows that. How could it not? All their relationships after The Relationship with each other is always going to be about them. About what they lost; about what they miss; about what they’re trying to replace. It’s why Hajime never even tried.

 

“I’m not mad at you,” he placates, because he knows Tooru needs to know. But even so, that’s not entirely true, is it? It’s not honest enough, because his anger yesterday had come from somewhere. “I’m jealous, obviously.” He licks his lips. “And disappointed. Not because I don’t think you should have tried to move on, but because it seems like you didn’t do it for the right reasons.”

 

It’s here that he finally turns onto his own side, facing Oikawa and looking him in the face. Just as he suspected, it’s easy to make out his features. He knows that face so well – he knows Tooru so well he could spot him anywhere, probably.

 

“You made a promise that you wouldn’t do something like that unless you really, genuinely wanted to. Not to me, but to yourself.”

 

Tooru ducks his head a little, his chin pulling closer to his chest in a shame that speaks of an old, distant hurt. Even though he’s not looking at Hajime, his hand still reaches out to rest on his cheek. His skin is warm, his palm large, fingers just as long and gentle as Hajime remembers.

 

“Sometimes I feel like I’m not in control when you’re not here,” he whispers, the soft pads of his fingers curling behind Hajime’s ear, his thumb stroking reverently below his eye. “I just miss Iwa-chan so much, and everything feels  _wrong.”_

 

And Hajime can’t take that, the way Oikawa’s voice breaks a little, the way the sheets rustle as he brings his knees up a little more as if to curl into something smaller.

 

“Hey,” Hajime breathes, his own hand rough and clumsy in comparison as he wraps it around Oikawa’s wrist. He pushes himself closer, so their heads are almost resting on the same pillow. Their knees touch as he shifts, before he moves closer, legs tangling together now. Tooru’s toes are like ice, as cold as they always used to be, when he’d press them to Hajime’s calves and behind his knees to warm them.

 

“I’m right here,” he soothes, pressing their foreheads together and looking him in the eye.

 

His hand drops from Oikawa’s wrist so it can slip under the covers and caress up and down his side instead. The cotton of his t-shirt is rumpled under Hajime’s palm, and beneath it he can feel the way Tooru’s body rises and falls with nervous, aching breath.

 

“I’ll never leave you again,” is his earnest, shaking vow, hand resting over Oikawa’s solid ribcage. Their noses brush, they’re so close now. As they do, Hajime feels the wetness of tears, and he doesn’t know which of them it’s coming from. “Not if you don’t want me to. You’re first, you’ve always been first, I should never have left you. We should have stuck together.”

 

Oikawa’s gasping now, and Hajime  _knows_  he’s trying to hold it all in, but he doesn’t have to. That’s what he’s here for. He soothes him as best he can with soft sounds and gentle touches; kisses away the tears that make Oikawa’s cheeks shine in the low-light of their old bedroom.

 

“Hajime-” he whimpers, and Hajime is powerless.

 

Closing that last sliver of a gap between them to finally press his lips to Oikawa’s is so, so easy. He pulls away just as quickly, their damp mouths parting with the softest sound.

 

“We’ll be fine. I promise. I  _promise.”_

Oikawa makes the softest noise in the back of his throat, broken and desperate, before he presses back in close to Hajime. They’re out of practice: it’s tentative, slightly out of sync as their lips brush and then meet more firmly. But Tooru tastes exactly the same as he always did, still chases Iwaizumi’s mouth when he pulls away, still takes sweet, mewling little breaths as they kiss.

 

It feels so right that it’s actually a little scary.

 

"We can leave it all behind," he murmurs into the narrow space left between them. "All of us, I'm sure we can make it work." He's not usually an optimist, but something tells him everything's going to be alright. Irihata always told him he had good instincts. "This place isn't good for any of us, not in the long run. I'm gonna ask you one more time, Tooru.  _Come with me."_

 

He feels Tooru nod, their noses brushing with the movement, and then they both crumble again - this time with relief.

 

It takes a little while, but eventually they pull away and the hitching breaths from Oikawa’s slack mouth subside and the two of them lay there, entangled in each other for endless minutes. The tears stop. Hajime doesn’t let himself relax until Oikawa’s grip has loosened and his breathing is soft and even with restful sleep.

 

 

 ♠ ♡ ♣ ♢ ♠ ♡ ♣ ♢ ♠ ♡ ♣ ♢ ♠ ♡ ♣ ♢

 

 

Morning comes and it’s back to normal programming in that Kyoutani’s the first awake, though this time it’s more because of the lack of sleep than anything else. He gets up, makes the bed and showers in the spare bathroom. When he’s done he changes into the more casual clothes he’d had in his own bags, and then puzzles over the coffee machine in the silent kitchen until he eventually figures it out.

 

Iwaizumi is conspicuously absent from the couch in the living room, but when Kyoutani checks, the Monte Carlo is still outside. He raises a brow but ultimately isn’t surprised that the couch doesn’t seem to have been slept on. It was probably only a matter of time.

 

He’s been sitting at the breakfast bar playing some stupidly colorful game on his phone for a while, when eventually the sounds of movement come from behind him. Iwaizumi-san passes him and pours himself a coffee, not saying a word until he’s halfway done. It’s then that he casts over a glance to Kyoutani and gives him a nod in greeting. It's easy to see he's in a good fucking mood.

 

“Let me get a shower and then we’ve got some place to go,” he says before putting his mug down on the counter, leaving Kyoutani to stare after him when he leaves the room.

 

After a moment Kyoutani shrugs to himself and turns back to his phone to try and beat a particularly tricky level. Sometimes it’s easier to just roll with it.

 

It isn’t until Iwaizumi is dressed - casual, too, and it’s such a relief to see him out his slick suits again - and they’re in the car that Kyoutani caves.

 

“Sohat’s up?” he asks, not bothering to turn away from the window he’s staring out of to address the other man directly. What he really means: where are we going and why?

 

Iwaizumi hums, pulling the Chevy out of Oikawa’s trendy neighborhood and joining the road heading back towards the city.

 

“It’s been a crazy few days,” is his response in the end. “Haven’t really had any time to ourselves, thought we could hang out for a while.”

 

There are two reasons Kyoutani doesn’t go with his gut instinct to make some pointed comment in response: 1) contrary to popular belief, he isn’t a moody teenager anymore, and 2) he’s aware Iwaizumi doesn’t actually deserve his bitterness. After all, his mentor has been through a lot more than he has in the past couple of weeks.

 

“Hn,” is what he says instead.

 

There’s a pause, and Iwaizumi taps on the wide steering wheel a couple of times to break the silence.

 

“I just…” the way Iwaizumi sounds has Kyoutani turning his head to look at him. “There’s a lot going on and I just wanna feel like everything’s fine for a little while.” When he casts his eyes over to send him something close to a pleading look, Kyoutani nods in acquiescence.

 

It’s another few minutes before Kyoutani finds himself sighing, slouching down into the seat.

 

“So you two have made up or whatever now?”

 

Iwaizumi keeps his eyes on the road, but he does shrug a little. “Think so. We had a talk last night and this morning, so.”

 

And that's that. Kyoutani doesn't really want to ask for the details; that's private. They keep driving, and contrary to Kyoutani’s expectations, they don’t actually head into the city, but rather remain on the outskirts. He’s left puzzling over where they’re going (if anywhere) as they pass gas stations and a big mall until Iwaizumi finally takes a turning, onto a lot.

 

Not just any lot, a  _car lot_.

 

It’s nothing fancy, as is evidenced by the squat portacabin acting as the sales office and the half-torn bunting strung between the lamp posts at its perimeter. It is  _big_ though, with the parked cars for sale stretching further than he’s used to seeing back home.

 

Sitting in the Monte Carlo, it’s obvious they’re not here for Iwaizumi. It’s a beautiful car, and the more time Kyoutani spends in and around it, the more perfect for Iwaizumi it seems.

 

Said man pulls the Chevy round smoothly to an empty section of the lot, presumably for customers, and kills the engine. With a little trepidation, Kyoutani swings the wide door open and clambers out, squinting his eyes against the bright sunlight. When Iwaizumi pops up on the other side of the car having climbed out himself, Kyoutani sends him a curious look.

 

“You’re buying me car?” he asks, a little puzzled.

 

Iwaizumi laughs and slams his car door shut. “No, you’re buying  _yourself_ a car. Got money, haven’t you?”

 

With a jolt, Kyoutani remembers the figure on the sheet Daisho had handed him the day before; the same number reflected on the ATM screen when he’d verified it shopping with Matsukawa and Hanamaki afterwards. He  _does_  have money. Quite a lot of it.

 

“You’ve always been riding around on that motorbike of yours-” and that’s because Kyoutani  _likes_ bikes - but also, yeah, lacked the money or desire for a good car for himself. Kyoutani watches Iwaizumi lock up the Monte Carlo and then slap the roof, “-but it’s about time you got a real ride of your own. If you see something you like, anyway.”

 

Trepidation. That’s what he feels. Because yes, Iwaizumi has a point. He has the money for a car now, and it’s true that seeing and experiencing the Monte Carlo for the past few weeks has really re-enforced the charm of a good automobile. He  _wants_  a car. But also, this might be Iwaizumi telling him he’s going to need one. If Iwaizumi decides to stay, or even if he decides to bring someone back with him, Kyoutani’s gonna have to--

 

“C’mon,” Iwaizumi calls, already a few yards away as he strolls towards the cars. “Let’s take a look before the vultures swoop in.”

 

Kyoutani spots movement through the sales office’s window and hurries to catch up with Iwaizumi, wanting to avoid  _that_ attention for as long as possible, preferably forever.

 

Iwaizumi stops dead in the middle of the lot and turns on his heel, squinting one eye as he surveys the place at large. “This place has always been kind of a dump,” he confesses to Kyoutani with a quick grin, sliding his hands in the pockets of his sweatpants, “but it’s always had some treasures. The people that run the place have only ever cared about cars that have come out in the past couple of decades, boring factory models that are easily re-sellable to people who just wanna ferry their kids around or get to work and back. But they get some cool old ones in they know absolutely nothing about.”

 

Without verbally deciding, they start to wander around. As they do, Kyoutani surveys their surroundings, trying to place a niggling thought in the back of his mind, until it lines up.

 

He’s seen this place before, though he can’t believe he actually recognizes it.

 

“This is where you bought the Monte Carlo,” he says to Iwaizumi’s back, voice full of dawning comprehension, the old Polaroid solidifying in his mind.

 

Iwaizumi shoots him a grin over his shoulder.

 

Holy shit. Okay, this is… weird. Kind of a lot. Iwaizumi continues to meander around, walking slowly between cars and occasionally stooping to stick his head through an open window to check the seats, the dashboard. On more of a whim than anything, Kyoutani decides to split off and head in a different direction as he wonders why the fuck Iwaizumi would bring him  _here_ , of all places.

 

The terrain under his boots changes a little from smoothened asphalt to something rougher, his soles making soft scuffing noises as he kicks at small pebbles which each step, as he heads further towards the back of the lot. At the very back, there’s an old corrugated fence separating the lot from its neighbouring plot, and the faded blue paint of it has been stripped off in places by the wearing of time, exposing snatches of raw, rusted orange. It’s kind of a dump.

 

The cars back here are definitely the undesirables, old things that have been traded in or maybe just acquired for cheap. Like the fence, a lot of the paint jobs are worn and faded, and a lot of the tires he walks past are balding, some missing hubcaps and rims completely. Many have clearly been here a long time. He’s curious, more than anything, about these cars that have been so easily disregarded.

 

Iwaizumi had said something about hidden treasures, and Kyoutani can believe it. At some point, years ago, a younger Iwaizumi had found the Monte Carlo here. And she hadn’t been in much better condition than any of the cars Kyoutani’s standing amongst now if the old photo is anything to go by.

 

These things aren’t useless - they have potential. They just need someone to look past the rough edges and  _see_ it.

 

Suddenly, he stops. Something catches in the corner of his eye. In a sea of worn blacks, yellowed whites and rusted blues is a flash of red. It’s not bright; the paint job not in any better condition than those around it, but the snatch of roof he can see over the cars between them is enough to grab his attention. Kyoutani redirects towards it, slipping between a couple pairs of cars to clear the two rows between them, and then he can see it.

 

He’s not a classic car expert. Far from it, actually. His mechanic education so far has mostly revolved around fixing small problems in a car’s engine so the owner can get going again. A little bit of fine-tuning and tinkering too, of course. He can’t even say he’s ever worked on a car over thirty years old. But there’s something about the shape of this car, it’s lines clean even in age and disrepair: the wide almost angular front; scoops set into the long, long hood, which stretches to eventually reach the windshield; the way that connects to the roof, which makes one smooth curve right to the back end of the car.

 

Kyoutani reaches it and rests his fingers on the edge of the hood, where its name was previously set proudly in chrome letters. Half of them are missing now, those that remain spotted with rust, but the imprints are still there, dark where the rest of the red paint is faded.  _S H E L B Y._

 

He circles it slowly, observing, curious. This is a car that was made to go fast, he can tell. As he runs his fingers along the line where the top of the window meets the roof, he thinks  _this_  is the car all the other cool cars that came after were trying to be.

 

There’s a soft, appraising whistle from behind him, and Kyoutani turns to see Iwaizumi has found him, caught him in his appreciation. Iwaizumi leans slightly to the left as he takes in the car with a critical eye, and then crouches by the front wheel on the driver’s side. When Kyoutani circles round to see what he’s doing, Iwaizumi is tracing his fingers over a small emblem of a cobra set into the space just before the door.

 

“You found a beauty,” Iwaizumi murmurs in approval as he looks up at Kyoutani. “This,” he says, as he rises back to a stand, “is a Shelby Mustang.” The way he says the words are almost reverent, and Kyoutani would make fun of Iwaizumi being so in love with cars, but whatever it is he’s charmed by, Kyoutani feels it too.

 

Iwaizumi cranes his neck to check the price displayed in the windshield, which is  _well_ within Kyoutani’s price range - and isn’t that fucking weird, that he’s actually kind of  _loaded_  right now. Iwaizumi snorts at the figure and shakes his head.

 

“Fucking idiots,” he mutters, more to himself than Kyoutani.

 

Kentarou casts his gaze back to the car and wonders if he might have found his very own treasure.

 

“This the one, then?” Iwaizumi asks, jolting him out of his stupor.

 

Kyoutani shrugs. “Shouldn’t we check what’s under the hood, first? The whole thing looks kinda… shitty.”

 

“Hm. It’s probably a fucking mess.” Iwaizumi opens the car door - because of course it’s been left unlocked - and plants a foot on the frame beside the seat, pulling up to rock his whole weight on it to check the suspension and overall integrity of the body. “But the rest is in decent enough condition to be a steal. We can handle it getting it road-worthy ourselves pretty quick.”

 

Kyoutani thinks this is probably another one of those formative experiences he’s missed out on - buying his first car; being  _taken_  to buy his first car. He knows about engines and stuff, sure, but it’s Iwaizumi who surveys every inch of the vehicle, checking the bumpers and the exhaust and the interior and finally under the hood, which makes him kiss his teeth and grumble. It’s Iwaizumi that whistles for the salesman hovering close by, relentlessly drives the price down a little more and negotiates the sale. He even calls a ‘friend’ who owns a shop nearby, and handles the tow that’ll take it there, because there was no way the car was gonna start by itself. Even it had been capable of doing so, Kyoutani knows that Iwaizumi wouldn’t let him behind the wheel before an extensive check-up.

 

Iwaizumi just plants his hands on his hips, twists towards Kyoutani a little and says with a smile, “Tooru’s gonna be pissed with all the car-talk.”

 

Kyoutani huffs a laugh, secretly pleased that he and Iwaizumi have something to do together again. He thinks about what Oikawa told him on the veranda and thinks about how he was right. Maybe they can have both.

 

He signs the papers and hands over his card and then he’s the owner of a Mustang. A shitty, old, neglected, rusted Mustang sure, but a fucking  _Mustang_.

 

Iwaizumi slaps him on the shoulder as they head back towards the Monte Carlo, which of  _course_ the sales assistant couldn’t resist bringing up in the conversation. Kyoutani had almost laughed at Iwaizumi’s face when the guy asked him where he’d bought it and if he’d be willing to sell.

 

“So, we get it driveable first,” Iwaizumi says, tossing the Chevy keys into the air before catching them. “Then we can work on restoring it properly when we get home. A lot of things need to be ironed out, but it seems like we're gonna have a lot more company over there eventually. Gonna need something to escape to.”

 

Kyoutani can’t help it. Something loosens in his chest, and he looks at Iwaizumi and smiles.

  

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i'm seriously gonna cry or something lmaoooo  
> i'd love to hear what you think either in the comments or via [tumblr](http://verbrennung.tumblr.com/)!!
> 
> PS. Kyoutani's car is a 1968 Shelby Mustang GT500 with the fastback body! Obviously it's in pretty bad condition at this point in the story, but [this is the car!](https://www.shannons.com.au/auctions/2014-shannons-sydney-late-autumn-classic-auction/WM4X67B264Y6FUC9/) I think Kyoutani would go for a darker cherry red though :')  
>  
> 
> ALSO: prequel?? thoughts? ~~asking for a friend~~


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